Author's Note: In the May issue there was a great poem by Donna Hilbert about angels. That inspired me to submit this one:


My Guardian Angel



While shopping at lunch
with my guardian angel tagging along
I am approached by a woman
struggling to speak,
waving a jar of Ragu in the air
asking (I think) what is this for?

Speaking slowly, enunciating my words,
I announce, in my most helpful voice,
that it goes on spaghetti
and  wonder if she knows what spaghetti is.

Maybe I should go with her, aisle by aisle,
reading the prices of chicken breasts,
explaining the difference between cookies and dog biscuits.

"Wait a minute," the angel interrupts, 
“This woman,” he says, “will think you’re too bold,
and  just be afraid
and what do you know, anyway,
about shopping for food, comparing prices?
You’ll screw it up
and it’s getting close to one o’clock.”

This is his typical tone, but today
I begin to wonder
about his credentials. 

Was there a shortage of angels
on the day I was born
when I was assigned this God-forsaken one?

Is he an imposter, working for the Devil,
having shot the real one, stolen the wings
and dumped the body in the Charles River?

“I understand your concerns,” he interrupts again,
leading me by my left brain
toward the nearest checkout counter,
“but you have a meeting at one o’clock.”

Suddenly an old song slides by my scanner:
Please allow me to introduce myself 
and I don’t know who is thinking that  thought,

whether it’s him, or me.

 



A Poem at the Airport


I was ready to give up
on writing that day
but the darn poem
wouldn’t leave me alone.

It begged for attention
when I was on the phone.

It followed me
to the coffee shop, the bookstore,
the stall in the rest room.

“Enough!”  I said,
“You’ve taken enough
of my time”.

The poem said, “Wait a minute.
You forced my ears to rhyme
and now
they don’t look right.

My nose feels CAPITALIZED.
My legs must be lame
biblical references –
I can hardly walk!

I’m hungry, too.
Could you please feed me
just one original thought??”

Enough was enough -
I crumpled that poem
into a tiny ball
and hid the body
in the nearest trash can.

Feeling guilty
after a moment or two
I did the right thing

and called airport security.

 “There’s a dead poem”
I said to the man,
“in the trash barrel here
at gate twenty one.”

They responded in a flash.

It was surprising to see
how much airports really care
about poetry.