FALLEN ANGELS SELLING BY IMMACULATE CONCEPTION

By Juan Montoya

Each day they're seen

The Fallen Angels

Looking furtively

Over their folded wing

Trying to tempt,

seduce, or get a rise

From passersby

Or some lonely guy

In a passing car

Or woman for that matter

Not that it does, of course,

A buck's a buck

A rock's a rock

You've lost  some feathers

Along the way

Some here, some there

Some left on back seats

Or alleyways

You huddle in doorways

And winter comes

Cruel and blustery

On frigid waves

Your naked wings

Warm you no more

Fallen Angel

Hiding

In the cold shadows

Of the cathedral

Looking up at the spires

And the sky

From which

In your too-brief youth

You fell