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.
