Читать книгу Jesus - David Craig - Страница 9

though I suppose it’s always like that—

the going one making all the noise.

I’m sure I’ll be hac-hec-hooing right along

with Muriel Spark, everyone else

when it’s my turn to brave

that cold amusement park.

I wish my ride could be like a saint’s,

but it hasn’t been. And if there’s anybody

doing that down at the college, you

wouldn’t know it—which makes sense,

given the noisiness of my coaster car—

quieting the world’s not an option.

No, I’m afraid most of us are like the many,

bumbling our way through, too much

of the holy water finding floor

as we enter or leave the church.

We are the great (spiritually) unwashed,

the mass who, we hope, will get into heaven

at a group-rate, kind of like Walmart shoppers.

“Yes, yes,” Peter a little bored, waving us

through with our small busy flags.

They’ll be a place for us at the bar, too,

in heaven, though many will leave

(not judging of course as we enter).

It will just be so many, too many new

dart games, too much loud talk for them,

too much carrying on—though we might

see Francis somewhere, quiet, grinning.

Everyone except Dodger fans.

(I have no idea why that should be.)

We’d all get quiet for the sunset though,

the huge heavenly ship going down.

Then it will be new stars and night birds,

tennis over to the right, under leaves, lights.

The whole place will be like a cathedral

with posters on the trees.