Upon our last breath
the doors of a courtroom open;
we’re here to account for our death
and the many things we’ve broken.
Perhaps we’re appointed a lawyer
who’s seen every step we’ve taken.
A bald, overweight man,
who, for eternity, feels forsaken.
“Order in the court! Please rise,”
says a bailiff.
The others unbend,
rigid shoulders, stiff.
Maybe there’s a vending machine
down the hall that only sells Moxie.
‘I’m supposed to be dead,’
you think, the dark finally caught me.
You sneak through the huge courtroom doors
and race for the soda machine
only to learn you have no wallet,
for here, there’s no currency.
You straggle back in
for a chat with your lawyer-
He tells you the worst thing you’ve done
is rob your parents of a responsible son.
“The sleepless nights,” he begins to say,
“were hell on earth to them,” and he turns away.
You remember that you didn’t care;
your conscience held no sway.
Now your before the cloak in black
slouched behind a bench.
He’s smoking a Cuban
filling the room with its stench.
“Stand up, son, this is your accounting,”
his voice, deep and hypnotic.
“I see mostly wasted time here
and a laziness that’s chronic.”
Your stomach twirls and jumps.
“Your mother died early, because of you,”
shouts the ethereal figure.
“now it’s time for you.”
Like a snowfall in your mind,
all you can see is cocaine.
All that it took,
and it drove your mother insane.
“I’m guilty, your honor, of waisting my life,
but in my defense, I had no idea why I was born.”
It was a lie, but I had nowhere else to turn.
To tell the truth would mean being thrown to hell and to burn.
He looked at me and I looked at him;
the cloak was too loose and he was too thin.
“The verdict has arrived,” he bellowed,
though I saw no jury.
“You are sentenced to life,”
I melted into the floor.
“No, you idiot, you can leave through the door,”
Maybe, just maybe, those were the doors I walked into this world through.
