There are angels
Angry from waiting
When I squint my eyes
Towards the sun,

Wishing these words
Weren’t stifled
As they inspire grace
Through its burn –

A fiery light
Meaning something
Beyond what day
Grows despondent

In this backseat
Watching full highways
Echoing songs
Loudly played

Over headphones
Bringing on tears
Seeing skylines
Pass through those windows,

Feeling band-aids
Pulling at punctures
Where IV’s bled
For so long.

Each pain suggests
Savoring air
Since December’s breath
Shyly offers,

Seeping through cracks
While agreeing
Suffocation isn’t being
Too blessed –

Losing time
Like philosophies stifled,
Slowly taken by graves
Without knowing

Or letting our world
Hear their beauty
Before God Himself
Calls you home.

Even heaven still
Hardly seems far
During car rides
Back to Staten Island,

If poems prove
Faith always values
Moments we seize
Before death.

That city just fades
Into dusk,
Though tomorrow remains
More elusive

Than certainty
Following sickness
Fear has assured
Will endure.

Finding hope
Never changes much,
Letting sadness
Sit under seatbelts –

Adjacent,
But keeping good company,
Now enjoying
Those very same sights.

• J. Pigno