This is a call to the unconscious angels
lying dazed in the gutters of thought,
haloes askew, adrip in dew.
Wake up, you hearty winged ones
and be about your proper work.
You may not sleep; you may not shirk.
I’m talking about the angels inside of
me, the ones that snore so loudly
I can’t hear. Your wings are frosty
and you need a bellyful of stew.
Wake up so I’ll be new.
The littlest angel needs her morning
cup of cocoa. Are you loco?
Arouse yourselves and line up
two by two and I’ll bestow a kiss