Remembering me.  (The sitcom)

What'll they’ll say when I’m as dead as the I95 opossum?

There’s nothing either of us can do when entering the realm

where requiems are played on an endless loop and 'though

the requiem will be meant for me, it's the opossum who makes

more sense of itself when it's dead.

At the remembrance the women will whisper:

"Good bunter" they'll say.

"Fast up the first base line" they'll mostly agree. 

"Couldn’t hit for shit" she might add.

–Cue the canned laughter.

Hell-of-a slow dancer, though, she'll sigh.

–Cue the murmur third pew from the altar's polished rail.

I used to like the scent of burning incense wafting from

the rocking thurible serving at the altar of the Benediction.

I've driven a fast car passing the opossum laid waste on the

tarmac of the open road. — I've fathered one child.

"That's 19 short of the opossum" she'll add with a smirk.

 

–Cue the canned laughter

and let the procession begin.