My mother called today,

wants to pay for her funeral

in advance “so you boys don’t have

to worry about it.”

But I’m not sure how

one does that, who do you pay?

After all, she may live

another fifteen years, so I say

just write me a check, you can trust me,

twenty thousand ought to cover it.

Been a long time

since I’ve heard her laugh so hard.




Michael Estabrook is a recently retired baby boomer child-of-the-sixties poet freed finally after working forty years for “The Man” and sometimes “The Woman.” No more useless meetings under florescent lights in stuffy windowless rooms. Now he’s able to devote serious time to making better poems when he’s not, of course, trying to satisfy his wife’s legendary Honey-Do List.