Seven years into divinity, 

Sammy plucked

his translucent wings free.

He needed to slip onto a bar stool 

without the pressure of sainthood 

pressing down like a crushed 

dragonfly dead on cement. 

Sammy slammed 

The Jameson Special. 

The sting kicked his eyes 

when a welder slapped his back. 

Ain’t that better than heaven?

Twisting his vision

on the townies’ sun-beaten muscles, 

Sammy smiled 

as his wings screamed 

through a wet tongue fire 

in the alley out back.