"Angels"
I’ve banned
that homeless kid
from the sanctuary.
He’d pass time
at the sandstone cliffs,
coughing thermals
through his street-lips,
then watch vultures rise
all the way to heaven.
He resisted –
the termite-riddled log
on which he’d religiously sit,
had become atrophied
by contours of his hungry bones.
He was tireless –
his tracks veiled
freshly peeled oranges
and cut grass.
He left me no choice –
refusing to stick to trails
earmarked by green,
his sneakers were forever crushing
wild flowers. It’s as if
his dreams were colorblind –
unable to ingest purple
and blue.
He’s removed
cardboard bedding
beneath the nursery shade cloth,
but left a bible,
wrapped in a sports page
of the The Sun.
Since he left
the vultures have gone.
© 2009 iota
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