a shock, a shudder,
a soft pleading cry. fade to black-no,
white-with the upward motion
of an infinitely propelled elevator.

*bing*

"come in, welcome. welcome, come in, yes."
a crowd has gathered. some weep,
some whisper, others raise their
hands and voices: another wall street in panic.

a circle of the less anxious assembles
off to the side, chatting, recalling.
your life was supposed to flash before your eyes,
but it hadn't been that at all for sal--
only an enormous question mark pressing down
to usher out his soul; for mr. rogers, a
sweater or trolley car, no doubt.

and all the while, saint peter, with
a lock combo scrawled on his
hand, wonders if he should have
let in that person who cut in line.