The name “Buddy” is etched on a chrome bone
And enclosed in wings on the tailgate of the red Dodge pickup
We’ve been stuck here in neutral
For what seems like an entire afternoon,
Waiting on the flagman to flip his stop sign
To a cautionary “slow.”
The scent of fresh asphalt burns nostrils, and heat
Distorts the horizon and rises to rival the sun .
The same truck
with the tailgate memorial to Buddy also has a bumper sticker
which informs me that angels are, in fact, real.
This world will numb us of all wonder if allowed.
I hope the decal is true, but what would the truck’s owner make
Of Old Testament angels? Faces of both man and lion,
Swirling eyes, limbs of bronze.
Enough to make anyone expecting pink cherubs
or golden-haired, dove-winged sexless heralds to fear.
I rub my eyes trying to keep a headache at bay, trusting
In the truth of tailgates,
Imaging God’s hands wiping away this mirage
Awakening my sight to a hill dense with horses
Pulling chariots aflame,
Lifting to a heaven
Where even Buddy, perhaps, will be waiting.
