My dream job is to count the tears of angels.
I’m not certain of the line’s meaning,
or of the existence of angels,
or even if they cry,
but it would give me something to say
to a smug pilgrim, if ever I met one.
‘I count the tears of angels,’ I would say,
and imagine the reactions this might provoke.
Perhaps anger and a punch in the face?
Fortunately, I have many faces,
and I would simply replace my battered visage
with a non-broken one.
I’m hoping they would express violent anger;
it’s the most fun of all the sudden emotions –
to witness, that is –
and it would mean that their pilgrimage
had been a complete waste of time.
‘God bless you,’ I would say,
as I threw some angel tears in their face,
for one of the benefits of counting angel tears
is that you get to keep some of them.
How much is some?
I don’t know. Shall we say seven percent?
Seven is a magic number,
and angels are quite magical,
so that’s my scientific guess.
It would be interesting to see if angel tears
could cure the pilgrim of smugness,
but let’s, for the time being,
not all hold our breaths.