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,”

“We like it here.”

“The people.”

“We really like dogs.”

“And chickens.”

“The way ants work so hard.”

“Yes! Ants! Ants are good, they never take a sick day.”

The answers fade out -

The faces turn in –

The dimmer switch of the absolute pulls back on the radiance,

Just a notch.

Well?

“We are waiting for you to tell us,

when we can go home.”

7/12/22

© Karen Stone