The Angel hovering in the living room
Removed the ordinary part of the air:
His golden robes very nearly caught the magazine rack;
His silver wings curled carefully away from dust;
His fastidious hands were folded at the buckle of his red belt.
He filled the height between floor and ceiling,
Comfortable in his aura of other worlds.
In every civilization, artists have tried to portray glory and failed --
Here was Glory Incarnate, resting next to her overstuffed chair.

"Barbara," he said, "blessed art thou
Above every other Life Master.
Your bridge game is judged Immaculate.
How are you today?" he asked her.

She felt, well, not overcome, not disbelieving,
For everybody from Catholics to Hare Krishna cults
Had angels somewhere, in books or in windows, in prayers, curses;
But, generally speaking, visitations were rare.

"Barbara," he said, "we couldn't decide
Just how to bid this hand.
We don't quarrel much--bad form, you know --
But a Slam would be just Grand.
We don't very often get cards like this;
Game fit is usually our best.
Keeps the others from getting envious...
Nobody better than the rest."

Barbara took the cards he proffered,
Admired the heavenly spades and hearts,
The midnight-blue and starry backs.
She knew she ought to feel faint,
Ought to ask him to sit down, offer refreshments.
The Angel did not want to be entertained,
Did not want her to trouble about anything --
She was second to none in her confidence of how best
To pick a way through the thicket of a hand of cards,
Avoiding all the thorns and traps.
He knelt on one knee next to her chair,
Wings and robes trembling with heavenly joy.
Barbara felt that the Angel had come to the right person.

The cards fanned out to show nine spades,
Ace through jack and five more besides;
With them were the ace of hearts,
The ace and king of clubs,
And the queen of diamonds... Twenty-three high-card points.
When she raised her eyes to his,
The Angel said, "My partner bid one club,"
And smiled beatifically.

And suddenly there was with the Angel
Another Angel, whose burnished crimson robe and silver wings
Tangled with the wings of the first visitor.
Incredibly, there was space enough for both
In the now very crowded living room.
The First Angel rose to as near full height as he could manage
While still staying within the walls and roof,
Spread one pinion wide and wrapped it about Barbara's chair.

"What do you here?" he said, "Forsooth!
Why art thou not at table?"
"Me?" snapped the Second. "Do you really think
That you're the only one capable
Of leaving not only the hall by stealth,
But any place else, whenever you're able?
And while we're at it, could you please speak English?"

"I am," the First Angel said, tugging at his robe
Which again nudged the magazine rack.
"I happen to prefer the ancient mode.
Would you kindly just go back!"

"Not for all my red points will I go
Away unless you follow!
That must be quite a hand you have...
Something in it our rules don't allow?
He lowered his eyes, abashed by his error in scansion.

When (and if) Barbara had thought of Heaven before this moment,
Its aspects did not include quarreling angels.
Awestruck, she barely could absorb all the light,
The colors, the details of hands, eyes, hair,
The music of their voices like trumpets in their anger.
It was, she decided, rather like having a rainbow in her living room
As she felt the faintest breeze of the wings,
Mused on the many pleasures to come
From a twenty-three high-card point hand,
Pondered the rapture the First Angel must have felt
When his partner opened 'one club.'

And suddenly there was a crowd of three Angels together!
The Director Angel's crown was imposing:
The outer circlet was formed by Gold Master Points,
The inner tier of Silver Points,
Both resting on a cap of sparkling, fiery Red.
Her identity was made plain by the word DIRECTOR
Embroidered in black upon a gold sash that crossed her shoulder.
The book LAWS OF DUPLICATE BRIDGE was in her right hand.
The Director Angel stood tall, stern; the others made way for her.
Even Barbara, while not well acquainted with things angelic,
Could see that she was not amused.

Scornfully she eyed him up and down,
Saying, "Jamie, were you bored?
Would you like to lose your golden robe,
Be back in the Novice Horde?
Work your way up all over again?
This behavior will not be ignored!"

She turned to the Angel quaking in red.
"Bob," she inquired, "what brings you here?
This house is off-limits. I nearly was lost.
Lucky the road was clear."

As quickly as they had come, those two were gone,
Leaving bright sunlight that momentarily had dimmed.

The Director Angel straightened her sash,
Spread her wings and shook them
For all the world like any other plumed being.
"May I?" she asked as she sat on the couch next to Barbara's chair,
Taking back the midnight-blue and starry cards,
Taking back twenty-three high-card points
Across from a partner's opening bid of 'one club'....

Sitting on the couch, she did not overwhelm Barbara,
Did not change the air or the sunlight, but let all be as it had been.
She sat, still, and smiled kindly at her awestruck hostess.
"To answer all your questions,
Let me remind you of another Angel who came here centuries ago.
He said, "'Tis better to rule in Hell than serve in Heaven."
And she, too, was gone,
Gone before she told Barbara
Where it was that they played Bridge.

For those interested, the bid was six no-trump -- and the contract resulted in a flat board. (Everyone bid and made the same contract.) Opening lead is the missing ace of diamonds, of course.

"Old Dogs May Have Taught Man Essential Tricks."
Michael Christie, Reuters, 3/26/02

Sometimes I dream of running with Others.
Sometimes I dream of teaching my residents tricks --
Interesting idea, isn't it: that dogs taught humans
How to survive when they were Outside? If I ran my house,
I'd be sure they knew how to greet me properly,
How to manage as they feed me, touch me if they want affection.
And not hover when I want might want some privacy.
Don't they know how embarrassing it is to some of us,
That constant watching? Peeping?
Do it, do it, do it. Did you do it? Good boy. Oh, please!
Hey, I was ready to do it inside --
It was your idea to drag me out here.
Not every dog wants to do everything in front of any old body.

Get a TV!
Tune in the Animal Channel -- I'd like that! I could lie around,
Get to see some friends, canines, dogs who look like me.

Ah, for the days that come in my nightly dreams,
When I run with my brethren wolves, hunt and kill.
These people never let me kill anything.
Just one bird or mouse, and it's right back to Bad Murphy.
I don't get it:
They don't kill those birds themselves anymore.
They don't dig up the plants they cook.
So how come I'm considered underfoot, unhelpful?
All I want to do is what I used to do, what I should do!

Well, all these unknown humans will go away.
I just have to wait.
Maybe I can find a new place to leave my mark.
And I can always eat more cake.

She'll look the same, so close -- absurd!
Though gender be a bit obscured,
And Personality to yet be Divined.
In short, we've all the parts at hand.
New Frankensteins -- and the money's grand!"

But, if Lochinvar existed,
Would you want him to come now?
Right now?
Seriously, conjure it.
You always think of him
Waiting for you to walk to him
On some city street.
Or maybe a beach, somewhere.

Would you want to be rescued
In your current fat, middle-aged,
Imperfect body?
Do you even want him to see you
As you are now?

When last you saw sweet Lochinvar,
You both were young,
Both in sunlight and in perfection,

Now, you are no longer beautiful.
Not even close.
He will notice this.
He will scorn you.
That could hurt.

We call hellos to all our friends around the marina.
The Peterson's always dock next to us;
They'll come on board for drinks, cards, talk.
RJ's eyes get heavy -- he's a regular old owl --
We sleep in the cabin,
Our heads next to each other under the prow.

Saturdays are the best.
Sometimes the kids come down, and the grand-babies,
But usually they're way too busy. It's OK.
There we are,
Out in the middle of the water,
No one near us except other sailors.
The boat races are beautiful to watch --
The ships so graceful, serene,
Sails filling as they meet the wind.
I can put my on bikini, or get really sexy.

Anyway - once out there,
We can sail to anywhere we want:
Tie up somewhere in New Jersey,
Or go shopping down in Maryland -
The main thing is to stop running, to have fun.
It's so very lovely out there when the clouds come up
And the wind blows hard.
It's such a fine world.
You'd be amazed at how comfortable it is --
He and I could easily live on the boat for several weeks.

Sometimes I think about sailing out and never coming back.
Some Sunday we may do just that.
Then Sunday would be the best.

Her with its wealth. But it was apparel she sought now, a veritable
shower
For her bareness: artificial pelts, faux furs -- she did not envy
modern
"birds" their feathers
But sought to wrap herself in the fabrics of new technologies. Armored
in
such power,
Expensive leathers,
Adoring elegant designer logos that she could wrap about her fine
bones,
She began to strut her stuff upon beached stones.

Little Venus: the new muse had champagne tastes. Modestly lowered eyes
appraised the stones,
The gifts rained upon her: sportif imitations, clever micro-fibers, a
luxe
shower
Of superbly manufactured scales, all fit to bedeck this sea-child's
bones.
Peacock feathers,
Python prints, dots and plaids, pushed and pulled leather,
Pleats, poufs, flowers, rips and zippers: with these she was the very
vogue
of power.

Venus, Isis, The Goddess, She: ageless, fearless, awash in provocative
power,
Surfing in extravagance, cushioned against the world by pillow-cut
stones,
Wrapped from helmet to Harley in fashionable leather,
Wealth her shower.
Aigrette plumes atop stylized hair, toes sheathed in pearlized ostrich
claws
and feathers,
Baby prowled the runway, modeling her bones.

Making sure her best sides faced the camera, flawless bones
Long and lean, our transformed goddess dripped money. And is not money
power?
Though not intoxicated with air, never famed for her splendid feathers,
She knew stones --
She'd seen them on the ocean floor, thrust up in mountains, understood
their
rapturous shower
Meant a girl never need worry about her next leather.

She fingered the entwined initials embossed on all her leathers,
Wound only the most haute of trademarks about her choice bones,
Stocked everything worldly in her numerous penthouse showers,
Knew her power:
Saw it confirmed by webs of metal, updated mail ingeniously embroidered
with
stones.
She crowned herself with fabulous feathers.