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

Mexico , Manila and Bombay .

Hedge-fund managers who bled the system

are deep in the bowels of New York , low

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

high above Machu Picchu , a lass

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      

be remembered.            

Milton P. Ehrlich