So hell has an address.
Death has a door.
And the devil’s in room 3A.
The kid on the stoop will let you in.
It’s up a creaky staircase.
It’s straight but seems to wind.
Old Clootie’s stretched out
on a maggoty sofa, grinning flames.
There’s a price even for agony.
Pay up or you don’t get to burn.
It’s your soul plus a week’s wages
at the restaurant, busboy.
So hell is a business card.
Death’s a transaction.
The rest is life.
But who’s resting?.