Alan Catlin

many doors to hell; open, all of them open

all of them inviting you inside,
the air so cold it hits you in the chest
like a fist, a hammer alongside the head,
the room spinning like a “Strangers on
the Train” out of control merry-go-round,
all the overhead lights flashing, disorientation
complete until the guess-your-weight guy
hands you a card and points down to the pit
where the mud wrestlers are grappling in
the muck, the packed-in-tight crowd
placing bets, money clenched in their fists
as they cheer their champions on as if
the women were not human but fighting cocks
and this was a winner takes all contest to the death
and all the blood splattered on the walls was 
not forensic evidence of some horrible crime
you have witnessed and participated in,
hand still clutching the card given at admittance,
the one that says GOOD FOR ONE FREE RIDE
IN THE TUNNEL OF LOVE, a voyage in the dark,
the ride of a lifetime, a ferryman waiting inside,
holding a lantern, beckoning for you to follow.