Patron, come in....

"Choose any book you want," it says.
The iron grill above the Gate
spells out the words in cursive script.

Since I expect to be here for some time,
I'm pleased to see that reading is
an option. I see another sign:

"Patron, come in." The floor is cool,
the columns twined with marble ivy.
There are no lines to check out books.

This is no living library,
I look around the silent crypt,
a tombstone on every spine.

Some are standing tall, pristine;
others cracked and leaning.
What shall I take to read?

Misers of love and Ministers of doubt
amassed a wealth of ironies,
then left us their sad stories.

"Oh, Reader, Stop and Weep," is one
of the more maudlin titles here,
"Mon Semblable, mon Frere, " another reads!

"Au contraire!" I say, "I am a man
of mirth; there must be another gate
for those who didn't WANT to die!"

No answer. "Do any of these books
get any circulation?" I inquire.
Behind my back, the Gate creaks closed.

--dan (this might be the ideal afterlife for Anne Rice fans!)