Dr. Monica

Many an angel does wear white, Though the flawless, blinding, perfect cloth Is seldom a part of the celestial uniform. True angelic attire is as often as not A bloodflecked smock Inhabited by a cranky, caring cynic Bent on saving you in spite of yourself. Dr. Monica, Best Friend to my wife, And a second sister to myself, Is such a one. Unlike The Ones Who Thunder From Above, "Fear Not!", Dr. Monica never said so on arrival; She lives in the land of fear And knows it's always standing by the bedside While you lie there trying to hang onto your soul. I know all this, from what she did for me, Once upon a time when I lay skating Over Death's bottomless lake, Steering me past the thin ice. She came from other places, other duties To keep on fighting Death in ministering to me In double, unpaid overtime, Because that's what the real angels do: Fight a fight no one can really win, But persuading Mr. Death it just ain't worth his trouble To carry off this one, just yet. Impossibilities being the angelic currency, She spent them liberally on me, Finding my blood when my veins tapped out, Talking to me though I was unconcious, Inflating the good and tactfully omitting the bad For those standing watch over me; Real angels know how and when to lie. Michael, Umbriel, Gabriel, Ariel And their subordinates May dress to impress, up there in Administration; But down here, where the real work is, The real angels walk the halls of pain, Wear smudgy robes And make sarcastic cracks In disregard of all religion, And with firm shakings of a head Haloed with a mound of wild black hair, They purse their lips and say, "Not today, Mr. Death, not today." Like Dr. Monica.