It´s slippery in heaven,
and little Sophie
within two hours of arrival,
happy as a long-legged clam,
lost here unaccustomed footing
and the floor, in a split second
lapse of conscience,
leapt up and clawed her elbow.
Bone was shown
and little Sophie sat
inconsolable
in the center of a cloud
of provisional saints,
her lower lip trembling
like a half-masted flag
in the grip of shifty weather.
The worst was slowly feared:
fractures or dislocations,
and a taxi pulled in from nowhere
through the pearly gates
and ferried little Sophie out
of heaven to the nearest clinic
for the kind of medical attention
that paradise just cannot provide.
The way she cried and clutched
her bleeding part
it was wondered whether
she´d ever let go the pain.
Five hours later (or was it fifty?
heaven knows?)
the cabbie returns with
little Sophie riding shotgun
waving like a queen,
smiling wider than the Atlantic crossing.
A gentle hand armed with
cotton swab and alcohol
has subdued the touch infernal,
and little Sophie—child of God—
forgets herself
and begins to run again
against the many know-better cautions;
but the floor now contrite
puts all harm behind
and wants only to kiss
little Sophie´s feet.