A Letter Home

For thirty years I lived alone,
watching TV: cartoons, canned
laughter and sports.
My dead food came
in cartons and cans.

When I died alone, drunk in
the tub, they packed me in a
tuna fish can, Bumble Bee, and
shipped me off to the moon.

The moon’s not half
bad, and I should last indefinitely
or until someone
opens the can.