Lounge Angel

He sights the broken candy girls
nest-haired, crying into their ice
and offers company.

He lets them hit him,
lets them kiss him.

They’ve been rolled through society’s tumbler and deemed,
“too poor stone!”
and discarded, while he
manifests in the clouds formed
from cigar smoke and exhaust fumes.

He pays the tab.

All bare ribs and peach fuzz, curls like rotini,
skinny limbs.
His skin, pink in one light, purple in the next,
glistens.
He has no eyes,
two livers.
No woman catches him and no man will,
and if you look directly at him,
his wings disappear.