The Department of Weights and Measures

That his best clerk, Akhmet, the only one with sense,
was a beady fink, he admitted freely.
That the Eater of Souls smelled bad,
smelled awful, and peed in the plants,
mauled salesmen and visiting dignitaries,
was no secret. Of them and of his boss,
the grumpiest, most mercurial death god

in any pantheon, the bartenders of Hell
had heard enough. At last call
his beak rested like a sabre by the pickled eggs.
The middle managers got condos, motorboats, new duds,
he got scratch. In a dream he called everyone in,
helped them into the pan, with a flourish
set against all them his one peevish cursive heart.