Surfing an indigo blue beam of light
a karmic wheel turns, a lonely voyage
to an unknown galaxy begins,
metamorphosing the righteous and
reprehensible according to a
formidable question: “Is there one upon
the earth who is glad that you ever lived?”
A former Red Cross nurse hovers over
homes like the Stage Manager in “Our Town,”
bemused by after-life transformations.
Philandering Episcopalians, suicidal Moslems,
pedophile priests and insouciant Chasidim
scurry about, fat roaches in slums of
Hedge-fund managers who bled the system
are deep in the bowels of
wage workers in a decaying city
decimated by their financial flimflam.
Dedicated caregivers who massaged
feet of hospice patients are blessed
with rosy cheeks and smiling faces,
winners of a jackpot lotto.
After all the tears are shed in the
artificial hush of a funeral parlor,
mourners chat with second cousins
wondering where can they go to eat.
The deceased move on to a journey
that has no beginning or end.
Unshackled, moving with the speed
of light, templates of memory fade
and disappear, no longer you as you
remember, descending into an abyss
where there is no there.
Flashbacks to previous incarnations
are a theatrical extravaganza,
an unending diorama of past history,
a Cro-Magnon man running from
a saber-tooth tiger, a lone eagle soaring
step-dancing on the deck of the Mayflower.
Picadilly clowns have all gone home.
Infinite ways of being. Present choices,
a forecast of the future. The past, never to
Milton P. Ehrlich