by Joshua Gage
First, she would have to be unscrubbed,
and not descending, but simply strutting
up to me at the hottest hour of the morning,
her wings oily with grime and smelling
of cigarette smoke. There would be no glow,
no radiant halo of light ushering forth, but maybe
a pirouette of freckles exposing the skin where the sun
laid hands upon her. It would be too easy
to say she swigs a beer or stomps the pavement
in tattered boots. But there is none of that.
Just her lips incense close to my ear, whispering
a divine secret in tongues. With that, and twenty-five cents
I can get a Styrofoam cup of highway rest stop coffee
and even then, the coffee would probably be cold.
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