i imagine that i will get a desk after death
and that god will be a pretty mean editor
. throwing my table over . like a money changer.s
. if i don.t write the lives of unembodied souls
to meet his meticulous specifications.
it would be tedious and tiring . all that writing.
and i.d ask if i couldn.t be assigned to clean toilets
instead . seeing that they never get dirty.
there.d be no rest . because there are no days
there . and what else am i supposed to do.
perhaps i.ll give up writing now
. while i.ve got the chance.
i.ll probably just collect garbage
since there is none there in heaven.
in a certain afterlife
you keep doing what
you are doing on earth
the writer writes about
standing at the pearly gates
the poet describe the feelings
the architect builds
everyone except the custodian,
who has nothing to clean