Doomsday Night
 
The Angels of the Final Things
Are indeterminate of sex.
They’re usually equipped with wings,
And frequently with gold-rimmed specs.
 
The stacks upon their desks are big.
They’ve ink to write and wax to seal.
(Computers would be infra dig,
And also lack that timeless feel.)
 
You join the queue and wait (you must),
When all upon a sudden, whoo!
You’re called: and your rekindled dust
Must face them.  And they must face you.
 
This is the scene’s bright heart.  You tell:
They listen, and you know they care,
As you relate what woe and hell
Your life has been, and how unfair.
 
Explain yourself?  You do just that:
Explain, confirm, preclude all doubt.
The heavenly secretariat
Do not rush in.  They hear you out.
 
And then it all dissolves.  The room
(Where is it, anyway?) goes dim;
You’re muttering to God-knows-whom-
Or-what.  More like a sheet than Him.
 
The wretched wretches, mean and fake,
Who’ve wronged you so – they’re back.  It’s day.
Ah well; at least you always wake
Before they get their wretched say.

Ruth S. Baker

If you have any thoughts about this poem, Ruth S. Baker would be pleased to hear them