Crossroads

If this is the Devil
he doesn’t smell too bad.
He looks a bit like a god.
Used to be one, you recall.

If this is the Devil
he sweats the details.
Dismisses God
with a gentle wave of his hand
for being too remote.

Says he knows you,
proves it in a low voice
by reciting all your wants.
Knows how to count pennies
and conquests, defeats
and bad checks. 

As you think it over
he adjusts the flower
in his lapel.  The Devil
is a dandy, pastel shirt
and good dark suit.  He lifts
a finger to his hair and it falls
perfectly over his eyebrow.

All those stories, all the fear
bled from the nuns, all the wagging tongues
of the men of God, and here you sit
across from such a reasonable refutation
of them all.  The common touch, too,
sucking on a Budweiser while he waits
for your answer, or pretends to wait

since you and he both know
that you’ve already decided.

The Devil, bearing a resemblance
to nothing at all like a traditional
rendering, sits back, orders another beer.
“You get this one, I’ll get the next,”
he says.  And why not?  Your wallet’s
already filling in your pocket.
Your night’s just getting started.
You’re just getting started yourself,

and there are so many ways to go from here.