Ghost-like material

flowing softly in the wind—

Black Angels, they were,

and so mysterious.

Grammar school invaded

by authoritarian Martians,

who crept around classrooms,

holding us hostage till 3:30.

Each day marching us two-by-two

down the street to the Church

for a celebration called mass

where they’d sing sentences

in high-pitched voices

which sounded, without

translation, quite like:

I can play dominoes better than YOU can!

Our eyes twinkled at the news.

So, there was fun in heaven—

at least dominoes were played there.

But what were their habits—

Did they ever eat?

I once saw one bite an apple,

but most of us agreed

they never ate real meals

or had to go to the restroom.

And what was their hair like,

or did they have any?

We weren’t sure.

Wind on the playground

was what our prayers sought.

The contest had to be won—

What lie beneath the garb?

Angels don’t have to wear

underwear, you know.

It was a puzzle.

No wonder we had trouble learning.

Our curiosity never satisfied

without risk of being sent

to the Principal’s office.

That head gear, though,

was illusive—

being stiff did not mean

barely penetrable.

A Second-Grader became cognizant,

trying to pierce it

with a stickpin during

an anniversary celebration,

pinning on a crown of flowers.

It was as good a chance as any

to see how hard it was—

she thrust the pin straight down,

only to find Mother Superior,

sending the poor nun to the infirmary, tell her:

It is not like a doll’s head, dear.

I suppose they were a fad,

those old nun habits,

but they’re missed now—

by the eyes of a Second-Grader,

who gave equal consideration,

to Martians and Black Angels,

in exercising imagination.