Having fit my day job into a readymade obituary I’m ready to talk about heaven. Shuffling
recipe cards from the bottom of the deck, I come across green chiles and a common knife. I
comb the couch for coins from other countries, clothes I never wore, folded on my lap.
Father whistled Sinatra with the window down as if a calendar were a blank check. A dog-
eared hymnal sells for crumb cake and a porcelain soap dish at the church bazaar.
Adjusting for daylight saving time the first reports of war fill the missing hour. For years
we spoke of night falling, but never imagined how far, or how low.
Will Schmit is a Midwestern Poet transplanted to Northern California. Will performs locally in between service visits to Pelican Bay State Penitentiary.