Today’s angels do not wear tutus
or ballerina shoes, carry sparkle
wands, braid their hair
with feathers or sing soprano.
The one I know is transgender,
has gray hair, wears a paper rose,
blends into a crowded train station,
and carries peppermints in one trench coat
pocket for those who trust
that sweets melt differences
between people with iron-man
tattoos or crosses at their neck.
Since few trust, in her bag
are two green knitted hats, gray gloves,
one St. Jude’s card, a tiny Buddha,
four palm-size porcelain doves,
and an umbrella to ward off rain.
She offers each without song
though some might hear a bell
from the shake of her shoulders.
No coronas of starlight.
No manger straw.
A head nod and a hand
raised in peace.
A midnight nap
on an old oak bench
beneath gold hands
of a railway clock.
Wings of kindness
flutter in her heart.
