Purgatory is an airport.
You don’t know where you’re going.
Saints march past you for Flight 777
Express to Heaven,
As the fluorescent light of judgment
Stings your eyes
And you shift in painful plastic seats
Unable to sleep or stretch.
Earth news blares on television screens
The crumpled newspapers offer no comics.
You can’t afford the dry sushi
Or watery cappuccino from a vending machine.
Security checks your baggage
Demanding that you declare every sin
Forcing your good intentions
Through the X-ray machine.
You remove your shoes humbly
And say your prayers
Purgatory is an airport
A painful waiting room
With heaven’s promise outside each window.
