Purgatory
Blvd.
by Craig Kirchner
It’s
foggy, everything is vague and soft,
doesn’t
know how he got here,
but
thankfully, there is no pain.
The
street sign comes into view,
it
reads Purgatory Blvd, with an arrow.
Between
here and Heaven could be vast,
or
right around the corner, no cross streets,
just
various stark stone street signs pointing the way.
Is he
here alone, or will he be joined by others,
in the
same state of puzzled sinfulness?
Is
there a sponsor to tell him how he’s doing,
and
what the program is? Twelve points,
a
stopover for the unchaste,
a
difficult journey taking decades,
or
centuries of constructing wholesomeness?
Suffering
was always implied as part of the process.
The
possibilities seem to range,
from a
long walk alone, to torture.
It does
seem to come with a guarantee, that he
won’t
end up burning in Hell, or he’d be there.
But it
seems clear, he won’t know Heavenly Bliss
until
he walks the miles and suffers.
He has
never been a joiner, not much on authority,
or
contrition—this could end up being,
a
particularly tough stage in his development.
Craig Kirchner thinks of poetry as hobo art, loves storytelling and the
aesthetics of the paper and pen. He has had two poems nominated for the
Pushcart, and has a book of poetry, Roomful of Navels. After a
writing hiatus he was recently published in Decadent Review, Last
Leaves, Literary Heist, Ariel Chart, Cape Magazine, Flora Fiction,
Young Ravens, Chiron Review, Yellow Mama, Valiant Scribe and several
dozen other journals.
