Angelus

Angela is happy. God is
good and there is no
drama to take upon her
shoulders, beside friends
and/or what is good;
amid the jungle of her delicacies
(tucked in are family pictures, one
member often to be found)
drawers that bad thing sleeps tonight.

She has sutured yesterday
successfully, and the attentive
viewer can barely discern the
feeble limp – chips of words do
still come out wrong from
time to time – scratching the tiny
wound between her front teeth,
threatening disclosure and clawing
for disclosure, as Angela gasps feeble.

She has an array – lines of
magical invisible shelves
hanging over her shoulders
so to carry those, imparted,
who know that God is good
– it is tiring, having
to drill it in yourself
day after day.
Angela is happy. God is still
good, drama is blue – faced in a
distant corner and she's right
where she is supposed to be.