09-09 You Missed A Spot

At fourth and thirty one p.m.
while waiting for my wings to dry,

I,
asked Jesus,

over for tea (ginger/ peach).
with homemade (gluten-free) biscuits,
served on silver and strawberry bone china,
no butter in the house (maybe he's vegan),
so the eggs in the biscuits remain,
unspoken for,
still,
he did not refuse,
blackberry "Joy" jelly,
how could he?
that, man to me,
I think,
has a sweet tooth,
to match a
not-so-innocent-baby-of-the-family smile,
spreading  honey (local) on his third,
carefully picking out the ants,
stuffing the whole, soggy, mess
into his mouth,
I caught,
a whiff of Patchouli,
sea salt,
while he blushed.

I wanted to pick the crumbs out of his beard,
but should I? could I?

I sat on my hands.

awkward silence encroaching,
(he is good at active listening, I am not)


rubbing my shoulder on my beard,
winking loudly,
I sighed.
Then I contemplated the chickadee picking at seed in the feeder,
Oh, for fuck's sake,
brushing the crumbs from him face,
rather harshly,
my wings flexing in the cramped space.

I wince.
He smiles.

you missed a spot

threading a silver needle between his palms.