The Angel of Death

Feathers flew
as I watched you
strike the pigeon,
from out of nowhere
            you came,
                   a streak from above. . .
your sharp talons
        piercing through to the heart,
        the meat like butter
                  beneath your toes,
and where there was breath
there is none. . .
warmth leaking out
like steam. . .
it parts the air,
rising up as if it were the soul departing
             for a better place . . .


and then there was whimsy,
a vision, 
as I watch the man walk by,
dressed in white
and carrying a white ironing board
across his shoulders
like wings


although he had a bounce in his steps . . .
he wasn't flying
        as he was weighted down
with his burden. . .
 
but you flew away
        without your catch,
hesitation in your movements
as you looked longingly behind you. . .
unnoticed by the man with the white metal wings.

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