The Hearse

I close the door of my red brick shell,
step outside and light a cigarette.
Aeolian chimes float through the night
and an October breeze rustles through
the half dressed trees.
Overhead honking geese
fly by in a tight arrow formation.
I think of the hearse
that drove by yesterday;
moving slowly up the hill
and how, from where I stood,
it seemed it was ascending
straight to heaven,
as it disappeared on the horizon,
between the buildings
and the clear blue sky.
I 'd watched and wondered: maybe
there's a highway to heaven
beyond the hills,
where the good ones
take their last ride in their last suits.
With one of the saints,
St. Christopher for example
sitting in the driver's seat,
and an angel choir singing on the radio.
I'd supposed it might be a collective cab,
like the ones I experienced in Morocco.
There they take on board other passengers
giving a nod and a halo
and they all sit huddled together
small talking-
dead, but happy they are not on a boat,
rowing down a burning river
amidst those terrible screams,
coins in their mouth to tip the ferryman.