Secretaries in Heaven
This is their new office:
creating a database of prayers received,
prayers answered, shooing
cherubs off the Xerox,
the green beam
churning out one perfect copy after another.
They have taught the saints how to multitask;
their pearl-drop fingernails
There is no need for white-out
since they’ve arrived.
Heaven couldn’t be better.
The souls over their endless coffee mugs
joke about who’s really in charge.
Death has been delegated to them completely—
they’re just so efficient—the pink stubs
of their Number Twos
descending from the heavens
in a swift swipe of erasure.
The afterlife requires such meticulousness.
Perpetually sending out memos to the living,
it is their business
to know everything under the sun.
in shimmering nylon that never runs,
they whisper in their cubicles—
they know who’s next.
Here in this chorus
of machines, the tone deaf copier,
the cacophony of the fax, the Golden Swingline’s
thump and thud,
they wait for us,
their round rumps on roller chairs that skim
across the great
desperate spaces—so organized!
so detail-oriented!—singing, Hallelujah,
this is Heaven, please hold—
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