Parousia
Why would I expect a tired employee,
overworked, uninsured, and underpaid,
to devise a surefire exit plan from hell?
That would be akin to thinking one can
learn about men by watching them shave:
scribbles on the margins of an evangelical
tract handed out near the entrance for free.
Have I accepted Jesus Christ as my Lord
and Savior? Amen. But enough about me.
When bored, I make a list of things I want,
like a car that runs or jeans that actually fit.
I am the volcano’s lip, a milk tooth teething,
Kodak moment ruined by campground wolves:
annual pilgrimage to a multinational superstore
aborted, mid-mission, upon discovery of mind.
Animals do not leave documents. Ghosts
do not speak to other ghosts, or engage in
parallel, constructive, or cooperative play.
I need a priest to perform the dying rites
of Divine Unction in aisle 29, beside
a pyramid of alabaster toilet paper.
When I rouse myself back to life,
I’ll weigh the distance between
perspectival and hourly shifts
before commandeering this
shopping cart the way people
are raptured: up, up, and away.
***
