By mailbox doors that gap partway open.
By garage doors rattling down,
doors reversing and yawning so wide.
Truthfully, any suburban anomaly,
any exception to the too rigid rule
is sufficient cause for angelic mirth.
The stray string tracing a perfect sine
curve in the gutter. The car backseat
giving a ride to an orphaned Tic Tac.
It’s different, though, with the squirrel,
laid out in the center of the cul de sac,
there all day, stiff, wholly inert.
At this sight, the angels are not amused,
doubly so when the banker’s SUV pulls out,
rides roughshod over it, blows on by.
Nothing to do but lift their furred friend
onto soft dirt beside a pear tree
where ants’ and bugs’ earnest work begins.
That’s when a big bellied man strolls out
of the nearest house to pour a load
of beer bottles into the curbside container.
Falling glass clatters, the lid thumps down.
The man weaves inside whistling a tune
that’s Lady Gaga mashed up with Lil Wayne.
Back to reset. The angels can’t help it.
Once again, in the presence of such marvels,
the angels in the suburbs are amused.