POETRY: Heaven

If I am good, I’ll ride the glory train to Jesus.
We’ll spit below on sinners as we pass them by.
For they were warned, as I, but they were non-believers
and greedy for the silverplate they saw.
We’ll fly up the lofty mountains ringed by clouds
of smoke that we can see is purified
by earth where fires burn in the crevices
below the rocky paths that spiral down.
And I shall live in palaces of plenty.
I want red carpeting throughout
to cover cold grey slated floors and set off
the golden chandeliers and faucets.
And in the cellars where the deep red wine is kept,
where it is warmest from the flames below,
a door and passageway with stairs
that tunnel down.