Arrangements

You bravos had better be ready to fight.—Warren Zevon, My Ride’s Here

I’m thinking bagpipes.            No, not bagpipes.Too much hassle and too damn much money.Save that for something that endures.If they’re still around, ask Andrew or Doc —or Alan from open mic — to bring a guitar.
                        They know my favorites.And if they beat me out the door, a playlist.Mostly Tom Waits. The gritty-sweetearly years and the weird mechanical shitthat came later — pump organ and freedom bell,found metal and sticks. That ought to jangle the teeth                    out of any receiving-line cliché.Fill in with Josh Ritter — those long,drift-away ballads that wave goodbye                                without having to say it.Promise me no Clapton. No Rod Stewart.Not one note from the soundtrackof any Kevin Costner movie. And nothingin heavy rotation at the funeral home.Whatever schlock they recommend, you cross out.        If your tears need an escort, child,go with show tunes.                        (You’ll know the ones.)Better yet, let’s declare roadtrip rules:            Driver keeps her eye on the highway.                        Backseat picks the tunes.