Dark Angels

The four year olds lined up.All in pleated pinafores.Blue.With white handkerchiefsPinned to the lapels.All of them.Pint sized humans.Marched into the selection roomLike a line of dollsFrom a factory’s conveyor belt.

It was almost Christmas.The Nativity scene has to be set up.“Who wants to be an angel?”We all did.Little hands shot up in air,One, two and too many.Oh no, that’s too many angels.They had to pick.

The teacher’s finger — long and slender,Pointed easily to three children,Who no doubt,Resembled Raphael’s cherubs.They put on the wings and halo.And the teacher applied blush,On their rosy chubby cheeksWhich needed no blushing.

That night I laid on bedLooked at my wristsAnd wished for an angelWith the skin of midnight’s cape,With scrawny limbsBulging knees and elbows,To appear in my teacher’s dreams.Just so that maybe tomorrow,Maybe,She might see an angel,When she looks my way too.