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G

Angels on the Highway

An angel passed by our house
without even checking the locks
or shopping papers scattered about porch,
sidewalk and roses.

Maybe he knew we were not home,
that the residence was empty,
except for a cat
and whatever denizen she captured.

Maybe he knew our house-sitter
only visited five to eight
Monday through Friday
like a regular job at a gas-and-go.

Perhaps she knew
the dwelling was home to an non-believer
destined for the Sixth Circle
even if all his annuity given to indulgents.

Or, it might be as simple as

the angel had bigger lemmings to catch
than a poet who relinquishes rhyme,
needs a couple of pots of coffee
to get it together
and pontificates about the errors of others
vaguely aware he makes them
unaware.

There is a war on .

Another bombing on the cross-town bus
occurred last night
(and the day before the day before the day before
beyond the days of creation
and retribution).

The Templars meet, a public secret.

Someone gave a starving man a dollar
without the lecture.
(Give a man a fish.
you know the rest.)

Somewhere a kitten was saved from drowning,
a dog was not beaten
or a child abused

as the angel watched
not caring poetry waters the flowers
and clouds are verse set free,

his grim task
to pass by empty houses,
cats some other angel's mission.


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