Arrangements

Of course I know it's bait. 
The algorithm seems clairvoyant, 
every ad on my feed picking up 
on that one time I stopped to read
the made-up stories of silver-
haired couples, probate lawyers, 
locked accounts, missing passwords 
and how touch and facial recognition 
no longer work when you're dead. 
It's almost sweet, the way they pitch
the idea of a clean finish. But also
there's threat (think of signatures
aligned like teeth) behind the smooth,
imagined voice that says order now 
what you'll need at the end if you really 
care for those who'll have to clean up 
your mess. I restrain the impulse to buy— 
the plot, the planner, the tidy record 
keeper— not already gone, not quite
leaving nor convinced I'm turning 
into the ghost of me.