Cashing In Those Frequent Flyer Miles Poem by Ted Sheridan

After the dead have left the garden,
they hide amongst the dark trees;
waiting on God or whomever
to send them a flight to the next stage of life.
Questioning if God exist at all,
they timidly look for mushrooms
to make the trip. Every rabbit hole
contains another trick question and yields
only a slightly higher dividend
than going cold turkey. Methadone programs
that once sustained and reinforced
their belief system in God’s existence;
now indicate he has forsaken them in his hurriedness
to free his only son from the grave in three days or less.
Talking amongst themselves in disguised whispers, they discuss
the many misconceptions made by Readers Digest; about
the global warming said to be occurring just beneath
the crusty layer of the garden’s grove; where apples
are at a premium and mushrooms are all but a rare find.
Where are the poets in our numbers someone cries; as if God
can be tricked into creating anything when challenged.
Send us a poet they cry as they begin to raise praise to any idol.
An answer is forthcoming; the dark skies open up
with disbelief; tears are shed upon the plebes…
And at least for some, it is now clear that God does not believe
in them; as others depart further into the dark forest behind the trees;
Poetry takes flight with empty seats...

2008 © T Sheridan