Untitled

A tree fell on my car today
killing me instantly.
A mile away, a man photographed
the lightning strike that hit the oak.
Published it nationwide,
spun an agenda,
won an award,
whatever.

Does he know how immortal I've become
in a closed casket royalty check?
You know, the envelopes with the little window? I'm in there somewhere, looking.
Maybe even
my ashes are in the fibers.

© 2017 Josh Dale