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Monday, December 06, 2004


A nameless, thirty-second poemlet:

There are exactly sixteen customs inspectors at the gates of heaven.
But many more than sixteen people die every day,
So it is very easy to sneak things through. The contraband of choice
Depends on what people most think God won't like but
They will. Condoms are a perennial favorite. When the angels
catch you with them, they wag their fingers before
taking the condoms away. Secretly, they're very happy.
They take each whitish, rubbery tube and fill it with rain.
Gathered on heaven's edge after hours, the angels drop them,
laughing. Angels are emotionally stunted like that.

posted by Reen |link| 0 comments

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