They buried him with a gunny sack filled with chitlins
on his own farm in his cinderblock mausoleum
that he had painted bright barn red and had pine panelled
inside and where he’d racked his sporting rifles
and stashed his cache of Playboy magazines.
There would have been space to burn and even some left over
but the consensus of his grievous family was
to give that room to his V-8 pickup truck
which meant they did not sacrifice his hounds
and lay them out like hotdogs in crepe buns.