This Is How I Imagine the Rapture
On the metro escalator
and you just keep going up
but at the top there’s a
starburst, a cloud
of smoke, and an all-knowing
jellyfish god who tucks folks
one by human-scented one,
into a tentacled cape. For example:
him. That guy. If there’s a good way
to haul a double bass,
he hasn’t found it yet,
but in the hereafter he’ll be glad
he was lugging
such a thing as that. And now
the mime may have eternity
to perfect the moment
where he jerks up his invisible,
sparkling fish. Such are the cosmic
perks for those
who deigned this day
to take, with others
of their species, a train.
Those running? Powering up
the metal teeth in suits? At whom
we’ve always sort of
laughed a little? They go
faster than the rest. And the young?
Attached and plumbing
the contours of each other’s
uvulas? They go, too. Doing
just that, just that
before love gets crowded with
its own fetid fruits. The late night
stragglers are raptured last
leaving behind their final silver words
on earth’s longest revolving handrail.
