Thinking Bad of Angels

Off duty, their pristine wings are casually hung

on the backs of a canteen door,

leather jackets slung instead 

over snow white shoulders.

Naughty sexless beings neither mortal nor flesh,

made in the image of the unknowable,

bored forever in perfection.

Downtime cherubs slouch in diner booths

as Eddie Cochran tunes blare out

of the unholy jukebox.

The flightless angels leer at waitresses

and demand eternal caffeine refills.

Old Lucifer taught them good in secret,

behind God's back,

or rather, taught them that being good

was overrated.

Now he's gone to supervise another racket

down below.

So, the spotless celestial crew

conspire like schoolboys,

planning little crimes, not so bad,

the surreptitious naughtiness

spicing the dull days of the afterlife.