Yes, I plainly see what’s sacrilegious
(having recently hiked Mt. Diablo)
about suggesting paradise is this:
shooting craps at Joker’s Wild Casino,
my old posse and I against the house.
It’s not the industrial-strength deco,
nor the band exhuming Grandmaster Flash.
It’s being with the boys and letting go
of everything except one little wish:
for two cubes to land on two perfect twos.
Paradise comes in simple attention
with all distraction transformed by vermouth.
Supplicate from the pass line—a vision
of sweet deliverance—holy pay out.
Rattle them bones, and come out, Little Joe!
You can be anywhere without a doubt
and reach heaven in a triumphal shout.