Today's poem is by St. James Wood


And though this isn't hell, it's in the suburbs,
where the houses aren't on fire, but smell of mold,
and the buses don't explode, but are late and lost.

And though this isn't hell, it's maybe a cousin
who doesn't torture animals, but dresses them up,
or a woman who hates you and eats cigarettes.

This isn't hell, but it knows all about hell,
and about the subtle road to your heart.

Here, no one is likely to buy your soul—
there is no interest in it whatsoever.

Copyright © 2005 St. James Wood All rights reserved
from Meridian
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission

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