It’s assumed that when we die
we fly or float away.
I’ve never heard it said
that the soul walks out the door
like it’s going to 7-11
for a Red Bull and some cigs
or takes the bus, deepening
the natural silence of
strangers drowning in the self
or hops a ferry across
the Mississippi to find
the afterlife bears
a resemblance to St. Francisville,
Louisiana, where
it’s hot as Satan’s crib.
Speaking of burning up,
I’d like to think the soul
melts like butter on a griddle,
and somebody I love
takes the next bite.
Means of Transport
