The Maintenance Man in Hell

It is a thankless job.

All my time I run about
With epoxy, caulk gun,
Putty knife. God
Does not notice me. None
Of the saints is in charge.
I think no one knows that this job
Is even being done. I get
To a tear just in the nape of time,
Find the fabric of Heaven beginning
To split into two sides:
I whip out my emery, sand
The still glowing edges, aim my
Glue gun, and squeeze.

If the rend has been going on for some time
I pull out the putty knife, slap on
Smothering sealant, smooth it out so well
No one discovers I have been here at all.
I listen, and only I can hear the splitting.
Accidents of reason I call them,
Tears in the fabric of Heaven, a rend
In the stuff that Paradise is made of.

In this work I am anonymous, simply support staff,
My only reward my earned self-satisfaction.
Odd that I would get here,
The final sixty-two of my seventy
Years spent as a reckless non-believer,
Yet good enough I guess to make it in;
To take up my old job for a God
I never thought real nor interesting,
Nor particularly forgiving, particularly vengeful.

I leave no scars, no residue.
When I am finished with one,
Another goes, and I believe
Without me Heaven would degenerate into tatters,
Shredded like a kite on the hard
Truth of power lines and an agnostic October wind;
A tent rotten, too long left in desert storms.

Just past my repairs is the Abyss,
Cold and loneliness, the absence
Of God, the lack of His purpose.

I regard it as a mere matter of fact.

Around the nearest pile of Angel shards
I hear the next parting begin —
And I go to it: agile, adept,
Faceless, unaccounted for, unknown
And believing. Believing I do my necessary service.