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

angels do not eat

angels do not eat
their lips for trumpets made
their whitest teeth a forgiving smile
their throats for His almighty fire

workers, flesh men and women,
need to eat for fuel and joy
food brings heat and sleep and sweat
preventing spirits fade

do not pay heroes with silver wings
though in our hearts they fly
do not pay with hands and drums
though our hearts beat because of them
pay what is right, pay what is just
do it while we still have time

I’m not sure what I heard

I’m not sure what I heard.

“You know what gets me, pal?”
“What?”
“Hinges. Always squeaking.”
“Oh.”

“You know what gets me, pal?”
“What?”
“Angels. Always speaking.”
“Oh.”

“You know what gets me, pal?”
“What?”
“Edges. Always leaking.”
“Oh.”

I’m not sure what I heard.