Only six angels live in Ghent ; three others
Visit routinely. One of those resident
Had the desk three over from mine when
I
Worked for three bezants and a bent
sequin
(When I could get them) at the Tourist
Bureau.
He was a very old angel and had been,
he said,
A sort of functionary in the old
universe –
The one God did not make.
There had been some sort of fuss in
Heaven;
The other clerks told me they’d heard
His praisesong had not been up to
standard
While the other angels sang Hosannah!
Or “What glory can compare to His?”
He would mumble “God? A nice chap.
Generous. Holds His liquor well.”
So he had wound up in Ghent .
After office parties it was my job
To see he made it safely home. Some
nights
He’d look in the street for a stray pin
And urge me to dance with him on its
head
Or remember that angels are able to be
at one time
In two places. We would reach his house
to find
He was already there. We would rattle
the locked door
While he pretended to be asleep.
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