I’m getting ready for my day of judgment
approaching breath by breath. Preparing
in the sunlight, fog or sleet,
preparing through the night.
Hour follows hour
of broken sleep.

How will it be?
A one-on-one or group review
of everyone arrived that day?
…my God, 6,000 every hour!

Will I be judged
with Japanese
and fishermen
from Fiji?

What will the questions be?
Some days I’m sure:
Italian cinema,
post war era.  Other afternoons
it couldn’t be more obvious:
what did I do when I was young
or more recently
to stop an awful war?

I’ve read the books.
I’ve got mnemonics on the brain.
The problem is St Peter
has two thousand years on me.

Or worse.  It may not be him at all
but some rascal from the other side —
turbaned, saffron robbed or
multi-armed and scowling, or worst of all
without a shape or name, and

with questions
I could have never  guessed.
I’ve got a Koran in the right brain
and a Bible in the left,
beads to pray with in both hands.

Tonight I’m dashing endlessly
from sleep to dream to sleep
hoping that a hidden drawer somewhere
conceals a clue for me.