His name is Hank, God’s Secret Service,

Protector of the pathetically unblessed

The tragically sad

Huge seraphim wings tucked awkwardly away

Inside a black baggy bowling shirt

Embroidered with a cross

He smells like jalapenos

Has a voice like two a.m.

Frieda always leaves the next bar stool empty

A glass of Dewars and holy water

Ready to unwind

Copyright 2018