I thought the undertaker would lay you out on cement. But he didn’t. Instead, you’re a stiff on lavender satin. A floozy’s casket. No kneeler. One hair from Lorene’s piss-dribbling, hitch-legged white poodle on the lapel of your cheap blue suit. That bitch couldn’t even hire a decent funeral parlor. Instead, we got stained carpet and cigarette burns. A blue Bic without a cap to sign the book. Our son won’t be paying his respects. Myself? Right here eye-balling the husk of handsome you always thought you were. One last look before you rot in the ground. You’re already nothing anybody’d want to look at.