Tom said he'd been to hell and back. He meant it literally.
He claimed they'd come to take him there, one day in '63.
He claimed he'd seen the devil too, guffawing at his fate
while poking people with his fork and mocking heaven's gate.
The way he'd got there no one knew, including he himself,
but that he'd been there was quite clear: he'd brought with him a shelf
that had been made by those below as a parting farewell gift,
before they'd put him on the coach at the end of their night shift.
The shelf he'd brought with him to show was made of wood and bone;
incised in it were blood and tears together with a stone
that came from hearts that did not care, hearts of all the damned,
hearts of those whose lives were bad and now in hell were crammed.
We watched him as he nailed his shelf onto his bedroom wall;
we saw him put his shoes on it; we saw they wouldn't fall,
for the nails he used had been inscribed by Romans and by Jews
before they nailed Christ to the cross. Its wood now bears Tom's shoes.