John Fenlon Hogan
Lead, or the Other Side
You contemplate the ergonomics of squeezing
that backpack through a needle’s eye.
You stuff entire haystacks, non-perishable
food items, the nuclear power plant
at which you’ve worshipped ever since
the sun went dry, the dissatisfaction
you inherited when your folks died.
Five square inches remain.
The plenary indulgence you earned
silently carrying that cross on your back.
The can of green beans that could save
you from starving on eternity. You think
God doesn’t own a can opener?
You think this isn’t a monopoly?