The Fallen Angel and the Daemons and the Dust
The daemons followed the footprints in the snow
from the skyscraper to the crack in the tar
on the corner of 37th and 42nd,
past hooker-fish-net-legs waiting for a catch,
and past the Dusty Camel Bar.
There the angel rested, arms open wide
and a leather duffel bag by her side;
rusted racing stripes from her nose over her lips,
there was even blood on her fingertips.
The younger daemon flinched at her hideous smile.
A traffic light pulsated amber into her eyes;
lifeless they were, vile,
like those of goddamned daemon spies.
The dusty neon camel lifted its neck
as the older daemon bent down;
he cleared his throat and lit a smoke,
his face pulled in a gargoyle’s frown.
They unzipped the bag and searched
for the dust, now long gone;
they stripped her down,
felt for the dust
near and far,
but never did they see that shooting star.
words by Ramon Ramirez