A Paperclip at the End of the World

Even God probably keeps his desk covered

In stacks of bureaucratic paperwork.

Lists of recently deceased filling the IN box

While newborns flow into the OUT one.

A necessary micromanager

Who tries to keep tabs on every kid with leukemia

Or downtrodden bum

But just as he’s about to snap his fingers

And conjure another miracle

The squeaky voice over the intercom

Calls an emergency meeting

To discuss changing the temperature of Heaven

From 72 degrees to 71.

On a Friday afternoon

When everyone’s thoughts are on Happy Hour

And sucking down ambrosia cocktails

An absent-minded Seraph

Drops off an important memo

Needing the Almighty’s signature in triplicate

And several boxes that need to be initialed

To keep the Sun from exploding 

Or changing the trajectory of a meteor headed towards Earth.

But recent office cutbacks have put an end to paperclip use

Unless employees bring them from home

And who the hell wants to do that?

Either way, the document gets absorbed

Into the array of nonsense

Scattered across the Omnipotent’s Ikea desk.

At precisely 5:01

The Big Man’s pulling out of his parking spot

Right by the front door.

A glimpse in the rearview mirror

Reveals a cloud of dust where all life should be.

Outside the golden gates, though, there’s just one old woman

With about fifty cats pawing at her skirt.

While nearly 7 billion people

Plummet into the lakes of fire and boiling blood

An obese cherub finishes his smoke break

In the basement stockroom

And crushes his butt on the crate marked Paperclips.