My guardian angels are a cynical bunch —
they knew me when I was much younger.
They’ve lost the halos ’round their heads;
their attire is veering toward grungier
They’ve saved me from getting too close to the edge
and found me when I got lost.
They talked me down from high up on the ledge
and paid bail no matter the cost.
I ignored their advice for most of the time
thinking I was immune to danger.
Despite insisting on doing just fine
now my problems have gotten much stranger.
They were inside the room when they opened my skull
to remove aggressive brain cancer.
“well you can’t say your life has been boring or dull.”
They’re embarrassed to offer no answer.
But they’ll open the door for incoming prayers,
good vibes and even crossed fingers.
Their favorite is a juju dance
with drums and a beat that lingers.
They’ll rouse themselves up from eternal slouches
to stomp and clap along.
The ones asleep on the billowy couches
will wake up and fire the bong.
I’ll take any prayer that comes my way
be it Christian, pagan, or rave.
By now my angels are too stoned to say
but irreverent prayers are their fave.