The Old Angel
shakes bits of September from her wings
and stands at the gates of the prison from which she
has just been paroled.
The clerk had said,
"Here's your harp,"
but the Old Angel told her to pitch it.
She took her big drug store sunglasses,
her mood ring,
and allowed herself to be escorted outside, though she could have flown.
Where did the 90's go?
And the decade after that?
She wants to talk to God,
but there are no pay phones.
Stopping in front of a store window, she sighs.
"Look at me,
I am nothing but dry skin and split ends."
She almost cries.
The Old Angel is like any other angel--
She would like to be pretty,
would like someone's face to light up and for them to say,
"Well look at you."
She would like to have angel babies
and a garden.
The Old Angel is out on parole.
She sits down on a dirty bench and talks to the pigeons,
her fellow winged creatures.
"I was innocent, I tell ya."
On she goes, into a little coffee shop called Danny's.
The waitress watches her walk in and she tilts her head.
"Well look at you," she says,
just as if she knew her well,
just as if they were old friends
and she had been waiting.