The Angels were calling to me
that night, through the frozen still 
as the street lights made the glaze
of fresh snow glow like magic 
and I was dross in a Pontiac
a bunched up whopper wrapper
jammed between the seats
praying to unfold enough 
to wait until the door swung wide
and flutter unnoticed 
out on to the icy drive
where maybe the Angels 
would find me, and cast me
not into the garbage heap