Bouncer Mike

God, I hate my job
on top of the world
looking over the edge

I see them coming
children and fools
I hear shuffling feet
some tumbling, some hobbling
smell the reek of hope and faith
they expect rivers of wine
trees bearing cakes, smiles of love
chiefly they expect to get in

Expressionless I stand
spit a “Wrong spot, try again next door!”
or “You can’t enter—private party!”
some

Bouncer Mike