What heavy, heavy fabric tradition weaves!
When my work is done forever
I won’t need to roll up sleeves.

When winter settles in my breast
and breath has passed,
do not drape flannel on my chest.

When my tongue is silent, don’t mock
Death—do not knot a necktie at my throat
as if I’ll make some cocktail talk.

Vanity’s a product of the mind;
pride lives only in the beating heart.
All shame and pretense I will leave behind

when my form is only skin, flesh, hair, and bone,
and I am carried up to Norton Hill
to be with those whose names mark stone.

Dress me on that day, though most will think it odd,
in the fashion of eternity—bury me naked.
This is not a sign from God:

“No shirt. No shoes. No service.”