BEING KAREN

The only angels here The only angels here are draggling, Flightless, Barefooted. Each lovely Renaissance arch – dirty. Sunburned. Hung-over, oh the rich cocktail of our air. A child’s fascination for the slickly shiny. Harbouring secret longings, Hopeful, For the ghetto fabulous bling wing. Why are they here? I only ask because these faces that appear in corners, like sad day-after-the-party balloons, look unsure. If the angels are unsure… So why are they here? “It’s a job,”