They illuminate the sky above the lunchroom
all winged immortal, bristling with light.
Sometimes sinking through the roof,
their golden feet make sparks along the ceiling.
That toothless guy has seen them.

Those young professionals
dropping in for a ‘taste of the city’—
hell, they don’t even see me.

Above the Maid-Rite’s wooden roof,
homeless golden dogs of heaven.
They are anyone’s, everyone’s, nobody knows.
The crip who works the grill,
who sneaks free burgers to cops and crooks alike—
maybe they are his.

Hugh Moore