Trudging gamely through the alphabet spaghetti
Towards The Promised Land
(A larger can? Capitals not Lower Case? Spagettimissimus?)
I glance with envy at the chairs
Standing everywhichway along the route:
Upright, resolute, themselves.
Perhaps Heaven is an enormous furniture factory
In which the saints are sofas.
Hard stools for Puritans. Ho! Ho!
I once dreamed that Heaven was a gigantic cardboard box
Turned upside down
In which vast multitudes meandered aimlessly.
Or was it Hell?
Marlowe’s chum Faustus once dared to ask
‘’So where does Hell find itself?’’
‘Why this is Hell nor are we out of it.’’
Came the terse reply.
Alphabet spaghetti!
Henry Woolf
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