A PICTURE OF HELL-IN-PROGRESS
In the first circle the Mayor was eating hot dogs.
Grinning, he said, "I’m still the Mayor. They give me
all the hot dogs I can eat. I like it here."
In the second circle I saw a former girlfriend
being blown about in the arms of her lover
by a dark wind. "I’m glad you got yours,"
I shouted. Stopping, she replied,
"The sex is great here. My genital herpes
have been cured. We’re thinking of getting married
after we win the lottery next week."
In the third circle I heard Allan Freed
on Hell’s radio station. "I never play a song
I don’t like," boasted the great DJ.
He played "Little Darling" by the Gladiolas.
In the fourth circle I met some familiar poets.
"We all have new books out," they bragged,
"beautifully printed hundred pagers with
choice of original artwork by Blake,
Botticelli, the Bellini boys, or you pick 'em."
In the fifth circle I found the old piano
I’d abandoned in an apartment twenty years ago.
"Don’t touch me!" the piano yelled. "You had your chance.
Art Tatum is due here any minute for rehearsal."
In a dark hallway next to the elevator,
a door marked JANITOR led
me to this
small car parked near Sandy Hook Bay
on a rainy Sunday afternoon.
© 2000 Bob Rixon