Morning mind aswirl
with thoughts of hell.
Not the fiery sulfured
landscape where the
souls of the damned
suffer eternal torment.
Just mulling something
I read in a book review
in the New Yorker.
The notion of hell
as a state of being,
not a physical place.
That state being
a vast remoteness
from the love of God.
Which makes sense.
If sense is the best way
to approach it and I don't
think it is. So I put that
on the back burner.
Musing as I rode the elevator
up to the office and listened
to the mellifluous female voice:
"Going up." and then
"Sixth... floor" as if I was
arriving at the gates
of heaven itself.
And I wondered about
the woman whose voice
makes the announcements.
Like if this is her profession;
doing elevator recordings.
She puts enough heart into it,
I don't think just anyone could.
I once wrote a poem
about an elevator
that instead of going up,
descended straight to hell.
When I stepped off,
Richard Nixon was there
to greet me. I imagine
he'll be there to welcome
Donald, and his faithful
Roger Jason Stone.
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