There are no house alarms in heaven.
There is probably no shaving foam either.

No weekend lawnmowers
No posters left on the traffic lights six months after the election
No broken promises.

No nagging parent wondering where you’ve been
Or what you’re wearing
Or what you are going to do for the rest of your life.

No rules to break
No No Smoking signs.

In heaven they’ll play the in-between silences repeatedly.
And you’ll pause, briefly,

Breaking them.