The Street of Heavens

Tell me how you die and I will tell you
who you are.
Octavio Paz

I stand in line. The woman ahead of me,

blowzy-haired and angry, is told that grace

is the act of restraint and road-kill is not a sport.

She can choose to wait or test the judgment

at another entrance. I know that morality,

penance, a kind heart don't matter, nor the faith

I embraced or didn't, the people I saved. I know

the key is where I land on the scale of commitment.

Earnhardt, Sr., died for the game, and got in.

Many ancient Egyptians buried juggling balls

with them, as though endless practice and craft

were their gifts to the next world. They entered.

I ask if I can peek in, maybe stand on the edge

and look into the vast canyon of pits, arenas,

fields, fairways, pools, rings, tables, tracks,

courts, beaches, forests, mountains

where war is forbidden. Here is what I bring

for review: a nasty fastball, a runner-up ring,

individual initiative, a contrary attitude, the heart

of a poet. I bring a willingness to run like an outlaw,

honor the Greeks and Makahiki, invent new games,

practice past dusk, play on the second squad,

and keep score until I can get in the game

with eternity left on the clock. I hope it is enough.