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Tom's Poetry |
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Angel RoastAs I skated down the sidewalk,I passed First Baptist and noticed they were having an angel roast. Rotating slowly on the spit, the angel’s halo blurred and rippled in the heat of the steaming fumes. By the apple in its mouth, I guessed it must be one of the fallen. "No way to know for sure," said the man squirting juices. The man at the carving table asked if I’d like a leg or thigh. "Don’t you have any wings or breasts?" I asked. "Sure," he said, "but you struck me as more of a dark-meat kind of guy." and he was right, so he speared a slice of thigh for me and served it up with some bread and wine. "Bless you, son" said the preacher, as I dropped two quarters in the charity cup. (C) 7/12/95 Tom Brinck ACCESSIBILITY FEATURES / SITEMAP / CONTACT |
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Poetry