Ellen is in love, glows, and is a star
in this little mom and pop coffee shop,
loved and the light and the center all
us tired and sad old men orbit around.
The money’s there to move up north,
up to Prince Phillip, up to the dense woods
were both aliens and murders roam, but
also the paladins and angels, fed up, burned out.
Ellen loves a girl, and only a girl would be good
for her, would cherish her, offer wings instead
of fists and harsh words, or maybe the guilt shames
me forever and deeper than the sky.
She hugs me, thin and small, at the level of my
heart and with a bird’s hollow bones, bones
that let her fly and touch the stars she came
from, as a child, as an angel, as a guide to paradise.
What does God and Satan have planned, two sides
that work together, and those foul bastards at the
classic rock radio station, what is up there sleeve,
good and evil bringing fire down on all the stars.
I watch Ellen, halfway out the door, still in her
waitress uniform, that teal and white beanie
that once belonged to her mother on her head.
The snow is the 12 stars of which she is one.
Don’t let God or The Devil get you, sweetheart.
Let the good guys win.