When Angels Sleep
By Gene Hicks
It's 2 am or maybe later.
The shadow cast from the single light bulb over the stove told me lies.
I poured a whisky, straight up, no ice and certainly no water.
Just me and the delicate tastes washing over my tongue.
I closed my eyes and immediately I was taken to a memory of her.
God Damn, she was beautiful but.....
Her soul was as black as this starless night over a beautiful city.
I pounded my fists against the counter, the Evil was done.
I took my whisky laid down on the couch my mother had bought me.
Being single was hard enough without your mother deciding to become Martha Stewart.
It was soft, I sunk deeper into it.
Like loving arms it embraced me.
Alass, sleep would not come to me this night.
Demons spoke to me.
offering words of praise.
No angels came to me that night.
I think they were ashamed.
