Dying in Panama is a technical error
A busted taxi trapped in traffic
An rusted ambulance that doesn’t arrive
A problem of noise and streets to be remedied.
Doctors are the priests here, in charge
Of keeping me from the afterlife.
Insurance premiums the modern indulgences
that we pay and pay to not go anywhere special.
Heaven just redefined is not only possible.
It is here and sinfully green.
It includes still iguanas and waxy orchids.
So much better than we were told in the Catholic school.
There are no corny Austrian harps,
No cloud banks turned into chairs.
The apartments have tile floors and there is salsa
With trumpets and damning drums.
Recreation is the point of this tropical life:
We can recreate everything and at all times.
Ourselves, our lives, our loves—
Doctor willing. Kyrie eleison
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