One morning, the two-bit criminal,
Cowardly scofflaw and all-around
Peripheral male finds himself
Unaccountably central and surrounded
By law-enforcing, sidearm-sporting
Growly-voiced males who do
And have done the real male work
Of defending and protecting
And bringing down outlaws.
They ask him for his opinion.
He does not hesitate to answer,
Though he hesitates to think.
One part of his weaselly mind
Can only see the badge on the chest
Of the officer seeking his approval.
Another part, the prideful
Artist of the minor con
Is pleased to be here, hard at work.
Lucifer, he thinks, listening
To himself fake gravitas,
Was not a great and awful angel,
But a little, barely tolerated figure
Among the hosts of heaven
When he was betrayed as a watcher
Not a true team member, a lurker,
A low mushroom of divinity,
Not even rebellious or sneaky,
Just contrary in his heart,
Bifurcated, observing himself
Playing at being one with them
Offering advice on how to shelter
The reality of human weakness
In the rumbling of thunder god.