Way back when,
just before Cardinal Kinderbumpsen
became the Pope in Rome,
I use to wait in the wee hours for an
angel
who came to perch way up atop
the steeple of the Presbyterian
church
down on Lonely Street.
She’d come on the occasion of a new moon.
And so long as she stayed up there
the clear glass windows of that
building
became the most gloriously glowing
stained glass masterpieces
that ever graced the walls of a
church.
But that was then.
Did you know that “pen” originally just
meant “feather?”
That’s when I came to know that
mourning angels molt.
And that’s how I got my pen.
And that’s why I wrote this poem.
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