a little bit
more than just spirit,
Ashland Avenue's great old archangel
is never far
and hard-
ly deferential—
baggy and
swerving, rash-
cheeked and
cane-
enabled, and with wisp-
white
quills that peel hard
from the corners
of his barbed
temples alternately leaping
and genuflecting
and
leaping
and
genuflecting—as he motors
to catch-
up and narrow crow
eyes—at each
dim passer-
by, rather
covetously—over his extra-
large breast-
plate white chunk
of conspicuous
and cartoony prim
crucifix—like it's some kind
of crosshair.
