Roman cinerary urn

A plastic box of grape tomatoes
rests on two apples of a mushy variety
(not the sweet Jonagolds
Jimmy Schuyler loved)
near a large orange, slightly scabby
brandywine, all in a bowl
that looks black but is really
blue with glitter. A small, square
olive-tinted vase holds a
yellow-orange dahlia—cut because
its stem broke—that goes
with the tomato. It’s the plant’s
only flower, crowded as it is
by reseeded cleomes and
miscellaneous weeds. George Foreman’s
“lean, mean (fat reducing) grilling machine”
is dirty from sitting forever on the counter
unused. A card from Finland, a card
from a Greek island, Folegandros,
still stuck to and warping on
the refrigerator, along with the
image of a Roman cinerary urn
clipped years ago from the Times,
turning orange (like the aforementioned
tomato and dahlia). It’s a stone box with
chariot wheels, shields, and helmets
carved in deep relief, that look piled
like Guston’s shoes—another image
of an ancient practice frequently revived.
These personal and intimate belongings
will be buried or incinerated with me,
in piles, in boxes, jars, vases, or bowls,
like tomatoes, windfall apples, nuts, pills.