On the eve of my twenty-third birthday
I sat on my roof, drinking apple juice
in a wine glass when out of the blue
two old women happened by. Neither spoke
at first, but as they drifted up the street,
toward the scraps of a day-old garage sale,
the two of them began to sing.
What they sang is a mystery to me—
they were too far away to hear the words or tune.
But into that great feast they went,
their fingers fiddling every silent clock,
every size six heel, every Stephen King book.
Their singing was a blend of retirement homes
and the blue croon of the moon that reflected
off of the pavement of the driveway.
Were these the angels that I had waited for
so long? I wanted to believe that they had
picked out a pink fiber scarf just for me.
But as they were tinkering with the trinkets,
the woman in the purple and red coat peered up
at the roof and scuttled away like the stars
on the ocean when a ship comes in.