Saved, or Not

A lifer dreams of the girl he sat behind

     through algebra--
formulates equations xy2 nightly,

pi the nth degree. Relativity,

bending the bars, preferable to the grind

     of re-imaging the sutra.

Being caged, locked away inside a box,

    consigned a hermit,
every hour indelibly stencilled,
is a hell not even Dante could have conceived--

a fate far worse than winding Hades clock.

     The no exit exit.

I've listened as hard men talk justice

     for the victims--
listened to cold men joyously condemn

another man to hell, like singing a hymn--
Sunday morning chaplains down for Christ--
     ticking off the other's sins.

It's not for me to judge judgment day,

     who's saved, who's not;

I can't even claim I'm a believer.
But God, if there, can't truck with deceivers,
a good man's heart should grieve the lost soul's way,

     who's saved, who's not.

Ken e Bujold

© 2022