When I Am Killed Before My Time

after a few days
place my rotten corpse
somewhere in the edifice
of whatever institution
brought me 
to my end — 
a church,
town hall,
police station, 
august tower of 
industry, or similar
palace of rule
and regulation;

let it be
somehow inconvenient 
to remove it right away —
lock it down with chains
or put it somewhere
obvious but
inaccessible;

make a phone call
with my demand
that someone from within 
the building remove it — not
a custodian or contractor
but a bishop or CEO, captain
or mayor; make sure
they do not send a flunky
to do the stinking work 
of handling death.

When they come forward —
gagging and tentative,
gingerly reaching
for my softened limbs —
offer them a slow clap
for finally getting
their hands sticky
with what they caused.

It will be good for all of us
living and dead to see 
how they move through 
this world in the days
that follow.