Looking Over My Shoulder
I went to Heaven once, sadly
leaving my push-mower and orange snow
shovel behind, like uneaten food
pushed aside on a stark china plate.
The man upstairs was not happy.
He liked a sharp blade and a clear
driveway. His strictures were
stringent enough to shrive a cactus.
Yet it was I who blindly insisted
on formalities, and stood
on what I thought was ceremony.
I could scarcely taste the beer he poured,
or eat my ham sandwich.
When our visit was over,
he shook my hand and sent me
somersaulting back to my village, where
I was filled, thank God, with genuine salt.
poem by Don Share