certainly flits about in pink,
wearing an apron, hovering
by a heavenly stove where
something smells, well,
heavenly.

Many of us sat at her table
happy to eat anything
she put on a plate, and
that has not changed, even
as the angel hung up

her last apron—perhaps
the Canadian one that said,
eh! Or a pink one with
cupcakes, or something
never seen in her earthly
existence,

a nifty little number in a color
unseeable by mere humans,
one that sets off her shimmering,
translucent—just look at them—
gorgeous wings.

•••

(in memory of Margery Thompson, Aug. 13, 1946–Aug. 27, 2025)