The Queue

By

They say it comes in threes.

As though Heaven keeps
a curious appointment book,
calling a singer,
an actor,
a senator,
to stand in the same quiet line.

One still hums familiar melodies.
One remembers the weight of a stretcher,
the flashing lights,
the grateful tears.
One can still quote speeches
that stirred a nation.

For a little while
they compare notes.

“How many knew your face?”

“Millions.”

“How many knew your heart?”

Silence.

The marble steps ahead
care nothing for applause,
poll numbers,
or standing ovations.

There are no VIP entrances.

No reserved seating.

Only names,
spoken one at a time,
by a Voice
that has never once
consulted a publicist.

Perhaps that is the final mercy.

We never choose
who stands beside us
on the last stairway.

A queen may wait
behind a carpenter.

A comedian
beside a soldier.

A child
before them all.

And when the Gate opens,

none of us enters
as famous,

only as known.


Just scratching where it itches!

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