David P. Miller: Who Watches Over Me

The Angel of Good Enough Most Of The Time.
The Angel of This Will Do For Now.
Yes, they wedged the shower stall
into the kitchen. They’ll inform you that plumbing
is plumbing. They shoulder-tap me
when two of my three pairs of jeans are torn,
so I can buy a fourth before the third rips too,
not fashionably. Nor am I ripped
in any sense, but my body coheres
normal-ish as expected. Until further notice.

The Angel of Eventual Reminders keeps his own
list of tasks not more than a month out of date.
He’s good at not rescheduling my appointments
after they’ve happened. He’s okay, if you ask,
though the unasked Angels of Your Best Possible Self
furrow their brows. Only okay? Tut tut!
They’re a teense bit appalled. What’s the issue,
my own angels and I want to know?
I may not own a sofa, but I have enough chairs.

My angels are very pleased with themselves
when they think about how my wife and I met.
Some day I’ll get around to telling them
they weren’t on that case at all. That was
the Angel of Luminous Stellar Explosion,
a/k/a the Angel of Primordial Singularity,
who jumped the wormhole, birthed the extra-
vaganza, vanished while the other celestials
were scratching their heads, searching
my fridge for the substitute margarine.

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