THE GUARDIAN ANGEL OF FRIEDA ROSE (August Postcard Poetry 2018)

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

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