WORKING WITH ANGELS

 

One afternoon in mid-September, 1920 

God pulled from His coat pocket 

A handful of change, two matchbooks

And a small clockwork angel which He asked

If my Grandfather Joe could repair. "Of course,"

Said Joe, who could fix anything with gears.

"Come back in two days." Joe made the repair --

One of the cogs had a slightly bent tooth.

Time went by and God didn't return.

Joe occasionally put in the ghost of a dab of oil

And checked that the angel was still working;

It always was. It had rotors instead of wings.

After a few minutes it always returned to its drawer.

Azrael, a much larger angel, came by one day

Sent, Joe assumed, to pick up his clockwork kin

But he was there, it turned out, on other business entirely.

TIME'S WORK

 

The magic weapon which wielded you so long

Is gone at last. In its place you find something

So very ordinary – a bent stick, a newspaper,

A packet of brass-headed pins, a few missing --

That you can only stare at it in wonder.

SECOND-HAND

 

Prince Genji wishes to dream

Of the many women he's loved

But can only manage to dream

Of Prince Genji. Dream Genji

Says "Don't wake up! I'm dreaming

Of the many women you've loved."

WHAT WILL BE REQUIRED OF YOU

 

The odds are good that God today isn't seeking

Your death at the hands of an angry mob

But something simpler -- a hex-nut wrench perhaps,

Or a bowl of soup or just two fives for a ten.

HER AGAIN

 

There is a painting of Salome with the head

Of Saint John on a golden dish. Her look

Is unmistakable: love  -- deep and tender love;

Her eyes are soft beneath her broad-brimmed hat

(There is apparently a convention

That Salomes wear wonderful big hats

While examining severed heads. So do Judiths).

"Oh John, John, my foolish, lovely John!

Look what you've made me do to you!"

Today's essay assignment: remembering, 

That the ways of God are past understanding,

Assume Salome is invited to be a saint.

Of what, of whom, is she to be patron?

VISIT

 

So I am minding my own business when

Sadness -- the genuine thing, aching and alive --

Comes into my office, sits down (who invited her to?

But sadness is her own master and does as she pleases)

Crosses her legs and lights a cigarette as if

This is 1952 and lighting cigarettes was a thing

Almost everyone did because why not? She carefully

Flicks the ash into a melamine ashtray from Woolworth's;

30 cents or four for a dollar. It's mottled green

And I know its sisters were red, black and orange.

So you're a detective, she says and I think no

I am nothing like that but I'll play along

Until the story's over.  Twenty five dollars a day

And expenses, I say. If I take your case.

Now spill; what brings an abstract entity like you

Out on a night like this?

LOCAL

 

From courtesy we call him the god of the road

But his remit only runs for two blocks plus

Six houses and a tree or two on the next.

It pleases us to see him making his rounds

Picking up trash and delivering answers

To last week's prayers. Often enough

He leaves them with the wrong people.