When I die, bury me in Whole Foods,
that I might look upon the glistening bundles of organic parsley
the tidy bars of paper-encased soaps
the hooded samples of all-corn tortilla chips
the blue-capped nut butters
the ribbed pats of salmon resting on their skins
the lines of parked Subarus
the college hipsters, arms full of Annie’s, cracking sugar free and drinking Kombucha at checkout.