Here Come The Tourists



Here come the tourists
with their florid guide.  As usual
they are out of time, out of place,
a moving wall of flesh picking
for bargains through the stalls of Hell.  
Prematurely middle-aged, they search
for photo-ops, pose like souls in torment
before the towers of Dis or lie on their
bellies to poke lenses deep into a fiery shaft.  

Some wear tee shirts that read
 “I Abandoned All Hope at Mephisto’s
Inn.”  They purchase necklaces strung
with frozen tears, sample chocolates with
bubbling hot centers of lava red.
Dangerous cafes offer strong, smoky
tea in souvenir cups twisted by demons
into the shapes of eyeballs or tortured hands.
Later they will cue up for rides in Charon’s boat,

each clutching a penny for the fare
(though rising overhead has made the
cost closer to ten dollars, all included
in the modest package tour) and how they
will gasp when their living weight rocks the
craft and poisoned waters of Acheron, Lethe
or Styx splash at their broken-in shoes.  And
now they watch with terrified glee as their bills,
in mock agony, burn, and curl, and writhe like snakes.