the last time you
felt the warm weight
but one of those
of a nickel
in your hand
and honestly
thought you might
purchase something with it.
Imagine being presented
with a granny smith apple
as a Christmas present
by someone
who really meant it.
The short poem is like that.
It's an angel—
not a real one
(the kind a desperate
person may need
to believe in),
but one of those
white plaster quarter-size
statues of one:
not so great to look at—
and minus the dynamite
singing voice—
but at least
it can neither vanish
nor inspire
any hate.
