My guardian angel went on strike.
He claimed conditions were unfair.
He said that he was forced to work
Without a break, yes, every day,
Yes, every minute, every hour
To chase me this way and then that.
He claimed his wings were quite-quite shot
And so, he went on strike today.
And so I asked his boss about
A scab who’d want to take his place.
He laughed, then told me there was none,
Not one among th’ angelic race.
Gerard Garrigan, O.S.B. is a monk of Saint Louis Abbey. More of his poetry is available free of charge by e-mailing him at: frgerard@priory.org.