Reading Poem by Eric Cockrell

reading...
Robert Bly and Maya Angelou,
in a room put together
like second hand clothes,
or a mad thrift store.
the shade on the lamp gone,
lost to the years...
the bare bulb flickers
from time to time,
as if to catch its breath.

and the worlds still on
a runaway train to hell.
people pass each other
like unaffiliated ghosts,
sucking on plastic nipples.
the plate in the sink,
chipped on the edges.
the cabinets empty,
martyred by time.

a well meaning preacher asked me today
if i was saved... if i'd found
peace with God...
i quoted Thoreau, 'i didnt know
we were quarreling...'
he said people that said
these things were going to hell.
i wished him a good day!
i should have given him a photograph
of the line in front of the homeless shelter,
or the unemployment line,
or the soup line...
maybe then he'd of known
what hell looked like!