STANDING ROOM ONLY

i THINK OF HELL,

Where the grass is glass

and would probably cut your feet

if you had no shoes.

(Are we naked in hell? Probably.)

Or if you had, (shoes) the grass,

would crunch and splinter

under your feet

like hell’s own electric frost!

And beds of iron they’d have.

On which to toss. (HA,HA.)

And nothing to drink

but dust

(shaken but not stirred).

And nowhere to sit down.

Just standing room.

And nothing to do.

And they’d give you iron gloves

that will not bend

to hold a pen

or pick up something

or do anything

so all you can do

is think, in hell.

And there is food.

But always too much.

All boiled to mush.

A great heap

on your plate

badly presented

nill grace.

And the air is close

for the wind never blows

so nothing moves

in hell.

Nothing, at all.

And you are in it.

Standing there.

Thinking,

Of all you took for granted,

When alive...

In Heaven.