Approaching Afterlife

It was always that afterlife thing

That got in the way of breathing.

Tailspins happen, and then

A truly honest man moves on.

At St. Ignatius of the Mad,

That little-known home of prayer

Away from people’s real homes.

I am invested in your hope.

It’s just that every night,

When I turn off the TV and

Deprogram from the dilemma

Of satellites, I look out

My window into the darkness,

And there is always some 757

Flying directly over the field

West of here. Everyone up there

Is, no doubt, mumbling

A silent prayer, while dipping

Their swizzle sticks

Casually up against their ears.

The pain is like nothing

They have ever experienced

In their entire flying lives.

I wonder about the afterlife

Right about then; how

It got away from us, and

Just how soon the new routes

Will be reaching our silver phones.