Dave Bonta's "Funeral plan" is a tiny poem with a wry joke at its centre. The speaker says that in their will they grumble about money, presumably about waste and expense, yet the poem quickly turns to a contradiction. Once dead, they will be "clean from top to toe," and so much will be spent on clothes for "my close," a phrase that seems to mean both the end of life and perhaps the closing of the body in a coffin.
The tone is dry and self-mocking. The speaker complains about money but can't stop the funeral machinery from spending it, and the dead person is the one least able to enjoy the outfit. There's also a quiet unease under the humor: the body is washed, dressed and arranged for an occasion it can't attend. The short, offhand lines make death feel almost businesslike, which is part of why it stings. The mood is light on the surface and a little bleak underneath.