Two women in filthy pants, high boots,
two tired women, up all night with lambs.
Now they’re sitting close on a brown sofa
eating toast and peanut butter with their dogs.
Their socks are drying, TV’s on, ashtrays are full.
Two women accustomed to work and work,
their love for one another under the surface
like pink skin under a deep greasy burry crimp of fleece.

The angel comes knocking on their door;  he hears
“Come in, door’s open, come on in.”
He steps around cats, pats the sleepy dogs.
He pours himself a huge mug of strong coffee,
sits on the dog-haired hassock, says his piece.
“Yeah,” they say, “A Savior.  Great. Glad to hear it.
Just what we need.”
He does not need to tell them
“Do not be afraid.”



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