A hymn sung off-key.

The moon has grown gray and thin
and casts a ghastly glint on us
here in this holding pen
wedged somewhere between earth

and a heaven we're wary of
though most Sundays we went to church,
learned our catechism, tried to pray,
and made white confessions of our sins.

Too late, now, to set things right
since that good night has come,
but aren't you worried, anyway,
the halos might be too tight
on heads bloated with pride as egos grew king-sized
in overhearing eulogies
that lied about the impact of our lives?

I don't miss it yet, do you?--
the willow trees and Queen Anne's lace,
the lilacs wet with morning dew,
the wagging of a collie's tail,
the laughing at a private joke,
or lighting up of a child's face
as he makes a wish and blows out
the candles on his birthday cake?
But I ache already that tonight
I won't be kissing him goodnight.

It's some relief, at least, to know
that there's a place of sorts
and not a big black zero of a hole.
But now how will I refrain
from saying damn and staining a white robe,
thinking off-color thoughts and singing hymns off-key?
I object to death. It's not for me.