a shirt buttoned top and bottom,
two buttons each, and all the while
he stood as though accustomed
to the company he sought to join.
He seemed not at all to care
that no one present knew
he wished, our group to join.
– as if to make himself at home –
he smilingly, unspeakingly, sought a place to land;
not too good, apparently, a clan like ours to join.
became the target of his screed;
poor H could hardly get a sentence in;
our “angel” kept a one-way conversation going.
The whites separated and downed in one take;
the yolks smothered in catsup, each a double squeeze;
two gulps each – they never knew where they were going.
He may be one – an angel, I mean – but I make bold,
in light of his dress, demeanor, and mysterious smile, to declare,
he’s one of the strangest strangers that heaven has going.