Fried Oysters
When I got to Heaven,
God was gone
His desk cleaned out,
the Angels pawned
Not one scant sign,
he was ever there
Eviction notice,
pinned to his chair
My ride had left,
my ticket torn
No place to stay,
my hopes forlorn
Looking down,
I saw the truth
The clouds were empty,
destitute
All tenets followed,
a promise made
Those things I dreamed of,
the church forbade
So here I stay,
imprisoned high
No pearly gates
—the oysters fried
(Rosemont College: February, 2020)
Copyright © Kurt Philip Behm | Year Posted 2020
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