peter, where are you

how have you hidden this time around?
i will steal the car from the garage if it means
i’ll find your key ring somewhere on church st
because if ever there was a portal to heaven
it surely would exist under leunig’s where
the cherry French toast trails under every door
and the first breath in heaven contains
oregano, because there’s nothing more
heavenly than food cooked with delight
and i’m positively sure i saw you once
in the dim light outside of the restaurant,
facing the corner and looking mysterious
because it’s not right for a saint
to look bored in any way.
i almost called out your name but
i’m certain you would have pretended to not know me.
your hand would have hovered over the
key ring, and the one silver key that
never fits in door locks, that you claim
is just for a diary,
must be for the door that humans
spend their lives trying to reach.
but maybe if i slipped you a twenty
across the bistro table
you would have handed me a copy of the key.
and i would have looked away
and sipped an iced caramel macchiato
and you would have turned your face back into the shadows
and no one on earth would have known
that i was holding a key to the gates
of heaven.