like a shot in winter  
when all air is still, white, and refuses to speak  
came their words, stark, but clean

"he is dead"
  
they will place him
under the hard clay earth  
where the sun will not tease him  
with the dream of wakefulness,
but, his home shall shine
  
"what color casket for him?"

he will be preserved
until their artful alchemy runs its course  
foul flesh will cling to his bones
until his grandchildren
gray with time  

“the plot will receive eternal care”  

somewhere, a star is laughing,
a black hole yawning, and a sizzling sun sinking
in the sea of irony that swallows their words
for he will be stardust,
in the blink of an eye

“how will you pay for this?”  

with a credit card,
infinite interest, the same one used
to buy the gun that shot him and broke
the cold silence of the winter day