I wrote a poem once about the angels
Who casually walk in and out of stories
My father wrote. They seem different
From the ones I’ve known – quieter,
More reflective, much better at listening.
Though it isn’t always mentioned, I believe
Many of them, like God, have a dog.
Late at night, the angels and their dogs
Go downstairs and take each other walking.
My angels resent playing utility.
When necessary, some cats or a shadow
Usually show up help me, or the odd saint
Looking to supplement her pension.