sits dangling his tiny legs
(because his feet can’t reach)
as he ushers us in and out.

We are sorted casually:
hot and cold
fast and slow
bad and good
but we don’t mind;
we would have spent
that energy anyway,
running to the grocery store
making love
writing free verse
so we let him guide us
through the door,
unworried.

I can’t see you now.

Maxwell cheerily claims
that nothing’s lost or gained,
but as I look for you
across a chasm under
two miniature, swinging feet,
I wonder why
we let ourselves
be sorted by a demon.