I wait for the summons.
When it arrives I comply
and enter the chapel.
I sit like a king removed
listening to the thin silence
draw me back into the
mysteries, and wonder
what artwork to expect fashioned
this day by the devil’s mouth,
what shapes will the body of
the snake take, whether pointed
or curved like punctuation, or rather
coiled almost seamlessly into an O.
I don’t know.
Death’s needs hold sway,
its odors must speak sweet
and fill up the air as in a stable
or a house of ill-repute.
My back arches like The Thinker,
elbows grinding into tops of thighs.
The light is weak.
Then I jut vertical to open
to give the babies passage
and kick back.
They rush to oblige, creating
a symphony, besides, dropping
plop plop into the drink.
I think, that is enough.
But no, wait, I was wrong,
another comes along to
join the song.
And yet another follows.
Oh, my! I sigh, I must’ve had too
much for dinner.
One day, I vow, I will be thinner.
At least, I’m lighter.
And now the party’s over.
Time to tidy up.
That’s less fun but has to be done.
The white pages, the tugs and pinches,
the moustache all coated.
Fingers probe, scoop up the soil,
acknowledge it’s the wet season.
How much to stem the flood? This
is becoming drudgery! Pad after pad.
But look how bright we’re getting!
Maybe another roll will do it.
Finally, yes, here it is: unblemished. Pristine.
Not a hint of muck. Good as new.
I stand. Roll up. Buckle tight. Proudly,
focusing down, I lean on the handle,
and with sadness, wave my goodbyes.