By Steven Jaindl
(Editor’s Note: The Pittiful News sent an investigative journalist to purgatory to detail his experiences. The following article is excerpted from a prolix poem he wrote, delivered to The Pittiful News offices by Virgil)
I find myself walking toward an edifice;
What this building is or what it does contain
I do not know as it was steeped in a mist.
I use not heroic couplets or quatrains,
For this is purgatory and I must use
Terza rima, with compositional pains.
As I walk a man trails me like a caboose;
Nearly together we approach a glass door,
Which I open easily for it was loose.
Turning my head I wish I could ignore
That my compatriot is quite far behind,
Although not so far as to not hold the door.
Thinking to myself, “To him I shall be kind!”
I hold the door for him as he keeps walking;
He comes no closer, and I am in a bind.
I ponder, “Shall I persist in my holding
Of this door for this man until I am numb?
Or should I continue my walk, committing sin?”
This dilemma persists ad infinitum
As I hold this door ‘til I am beyond sick
In this timeless, frictionless continuum.
My advice: to stragglers be a complete dick,
And do not hold any doors in their midst;
And if you plan to die, don’t be Catholic.
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