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Polished Halos

for Bernard


 We are misfits. We fit. Two halves of separately shattered plates. We've risen from central and north and stalk our disappointments on intelligent wheels. Today we are smart alecks, flirtatious at best and mean at the wall. Twin siblings of different smoke stacks. When our houses burned down we ate rubble just to claim a righteous plank chair in the small holocaust arena. 

You once wore your clunky metal halo screwed into your neck and thick head, ducked for signs. I polished mine when no one was looking and nailed it to the front door like a year-round wreath warning anyone who could not pray to not get too close. All these crooked years later your deep voice is still tempered with mischief. I cock my ear to listen in symphony.

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