After we die, our digital corpses haunt the internet.
Ghostly imposters in search of better interest rates,
automobile warranties, medical plans.

No last rites. No obituary. No funeral.  

Cruel irony, like abandoned telephone answering 
machines parroting cheerful greetings on endless loop.  
“Leave a message. I’ll get right back to you.”

No wake. No mourners. No interment. 

Virtual undertakers scour cyberspace for remains.
Those recovered denied afterlife, executed
with keystroke bullets, delete, delete, delete.  

No eulogy. No second line. No memorial.

Data echoes of our former selves languish in cloud 
and server mausoleums until entropy chews the last byte.  
Bitcoins cover eyes. Electrons serve as pallbearers.

My resolution for the new year: purge
pantry of expired products. Discard
five-year-old beans, ten-year-old condiments, 
desiccated Halloween candy.

Some expiration predictions exceed
my life expectancy. Made me wonder, 
where’s my expiration date, list of ingredients, 
useful instructions? I’ve looked everywhere.   

No dates, QR or bar codes, prompts
for handling, storage, disposal. No warnings 
to reject if seal is broken, sell by Friday,
consume or freeze by Monday. 

Science claims all encoded in DNA.
Too cryptic for easy viewing. Better to
stroll through family cemeteries, read 
stone labels, take notes, calculate averages.  

The coroner will record my expiration date, 
decode instructions written on remains. Fully 
cooked, handle with care, contains peanuts, 
refrigerate after opening, recycle.