The Rental Urn

Incidentally today would be my Father's 87th B'day. In 2007, when he died, remembering how he had always wanted a sailing yacht, we got one etched on his urn. He used to make lamps out things when we were kids. Port wine bottles, copper condensation pots from a Prohibition Era still, some funereal looking gift vases.
Thank God he'd grown out of that before my Mother died in 1979.
Now forget all that, 'cause this poem is not about my Dad.


The Rental Urn

With the mortician I sat finally to make plans,
Just wanting something simple, to be loved in younger hands,

"We have this urn, top of the line, jeweled, bedazzling, makes any mantel’s center piece,"
"Seems sharp edges could hurt little hands, too high a price for such caprice,"

"There’s this one, forged in brass, plaited with gold, a pleasing gift for those in grief,"
"This urn of gold is more than I’m worth, in death I’d not want tempt the thief,"

"There is one, the rental urn, you lease it, effective when you’re dead,
Then your family simply returns it, once your ashes have been spread,"

"No, that won’t do,"
"We’re running out of options. Now, how’m I gonna get you in a your classy urn today?"

"Can you sell me loving hands,
Those who’ll hold me long in need,
Without of which, what good’s your pitch,
   For what’s an urn in deed?"