When I DiedAfter I died, I stuck around. My taxi to the afterlife
Appeared at once, its driver waving madly. “Hurry
Son; it's late,” but I said, “Just go on without me,”
Doubting that the city fathers there would be too
Fond of me. I mocked them all my living days
For being pinched, intolerant, for shunning harmless
Fun and cursing those who saw some good in it.
Someone who shared their sort of virtue could expect
A pleasant place to while away unending days (at risk
Of boredom, I suspect), but one, like me, was apt
To end up in a prison camp. The cabbie left, and I
Stared at the world through open, lifeless eyes.
The sun was warm and puffy clouds were drifting
Slowly through the sky. I heard some children
Playing on a swing set, saw an old man doze.
A business woman wolfed her lunch while
Stabbing at her telephone. A dog came by
And sniffed at me. The world is such
A pleasant place for one who has no goals,
Nor any means of chasing after them. In time,
An ambulance arrived, and I was hustled into it,
And driven to a cold and sterile room, which I
Found deadly dull, and sensing that I'd never
Be allowed to go outside again, the next time
That that cab arrived, I quickly climbed aboard.
Poetry by Lawrence Beck
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Written on 2019-09-10 at 16:55
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