Angel hangs from taut filament
tied to a modest halo
rendered paper clip thin,
her mute bubble head of cheap
opalescent glass bobbing
in rhythm with traffic,
plastic praying hands dangling
from frayed pink ribbon
encircling her neck,
mesh wings bristling
at the uncertainty of interstate travel.
Angel is not a holy roller-
despite her looks.
She does not want to evangelize
or touch the heart.
Instead, she yearns for a prayer
to set her free from the torture
of stale cigarette smoke,
bad music and off-key singing
from the woman who drives the car,
from the woman who only prays
for the souls of road-kill,
from the woman who actually wonders
whether or not it is ok
to be flattered by your stalker.
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