Extol the Virtues of the Polyester Shirt

In this life we can never know God’s heaven, 
but it’s a good bet we won’t find angels  
surfing the clouds with golden harps,  
and no glorious panic of halos and wings  
will greet us at the gates. 

In this life we can never know God’s heaven, 
but we can know this:  
a knickknack funhouse 
strung between the highway and the sea, 
and a bumper car arcade that will open at noon. 

The tide is rising quickly  
in this Oregon beach town, 
and suddenly families flood the souvenir shops 
where shelves overflow with miracles: 
seashells sprayed fluorescent pink and neon blue, 

wind chimes waiting coyly to flirt with the wind,  
kites like flying tortoises, crabs that strum guitars  
and saltwater taffy in so many flavors 
you could eat it all day  
and never grow bored. 

One block away, an old man sits on a bench  
near the sand and gazes at the horizon.   
He wears a polyester shirt blazoned with a sunset  
in a color that doesn’t exist anywhere else on earth.   
The salt air stings his eyes. 

In this life we may never know  
exactly where the ocean turns to sky, 
but we can know this:   
it has to end somewhere. 
In spite of the fog, we can always find  

whales dressed in sailor caps 
and snow globes  
filled with starfish. 
In spite of the terrible sadness,  
we find everything we need. 

GLENN PAPE

Glenn Pape is aging somewhat gracefully in Portland, Oregon with his wife and a dog who looks like a cross between Bernie Sanders and a loofah. Since turning 50, he has been published in the North American Review, The Sun, Poet Lore, Pulp Literature, and the Rhysling Anthology, among other places.