As they cut the pinstripe suit from my broken body
they caught a brief blood-drenched glimpse of
of finelace underwear.
Under the ground such secrets pale
into light starved insignificance
and when the living
change their black suits for casuals,
their shone shoes for trainers
and walk back to their living rooms
a fringed filigree of stitchwork and gauze
shrouds the damp darkness of the dead
I thought this gravely as they zipped up
the body bag
I had finally made it
to finelace