What if this
is the afterlife,
this little room
beige everlasting,
windowless,
and buried deep?
Outside: Busy Boulevard
and the dash
I called ‘my’ life.
Inside: a white desk,
swivel chair,
and a Sefer Tehillim—
number 23 marked
with a torn blue Post-it.
No comforting rod or staff,
but leaning
against a wall
is a parasol
to summon the warmth
of a long-ago summer sun.
Also a hot-plate for those
who still hunger,
a worn sofa for bodies
that crave repose,
and a lingering soul
whispering psalms
in the key of air.