Postmortem Makeover

A little poem that wouldn't die until it was born.

When I die
bury me with 
blond hair rouge 
enough to suggest 
a smile and
freshly pared nails.
Yes, vanity in
the grave's ironic
but if poets
can be trusted 
even in the 
quietest crypts one
fantasy thrums on
and on and
so, survive me.
but do rifle 
through these notes
and unearth these
perfumed and poorly 
hidden behests and
help me to
look at last
like someone you
yet might kiss.