The Angel

When you run out of ideas
And the store is closed,
And no one will deliver
To your rural postbox,
Not even those desperate
To make an extra buck,

You're left with the sun
And your licked-clean bowl
Of a skull, almost hoping
For one of those cultists
From the commune down the valley
To come knocking with pamphlets

And some version of scriptures
Wadded up under a nervous arm
Reeking of stale perspiration
And the shy desire to win
An argument by conversion.
Now there's an idea.