it is not a fault

it is not a fault
in itself
to see angels in your yard
or to chase them away
by flapping your arms
and making barking noises
like the yellow-brown mongrel from three doors down

not in itself

you sit down on the kerb
head in hands
elbows on knees
breathing a challenge
now the angels are gone

you know they will be back though
rustling and humming in the corner of the yard
when the blue lights stop spinning
and those lovely young men
in their spearmint green kit
finish drinking their tea

you sit down
in the house now
and the silence is broken
only by the yellow-brown mongrel
and a forethought of humming
there’s plenty more biscuits
you say to yourself

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