Mother’s stocked the living room with death’s residual crumb;
She’s neatly packed the urn-grounds in leather armarium.

Her father and two grands ensconced silent on the mantle;
Their breath long left but flotsam flecks betray Mortem, the vandal.

Luggage never set to stow on barge, ark or bus
Protects the final vestige of dear visages.

She’s exchanged a chest or two, in favor of style or size,
Toying with block-uniforms to match their afterlives.

“Don’t burden the kids with quasi-caskets!” Father warned.
But building an indoor barrow was the way my mother mourned.