Angel With Pigeon Feet

My father drove a pick up truck

Earned a lving at the local paper mill

Lived in a small town

Where rock divided  the top of a hill

He was well known throughout the town

Always smiled, saying good day

to people on the street

Love to chew the fat with his friends

over coffee at least once a week

He was a real character with a sense of humor

Sort of like a diamond in the rough

Jaded and warn around the edges

But inside  his heart wasn't so tough

His middle years were full of hard knocks

Forcing him to retreat for a time

Unprepared for the losses he suffered

He found solice in  drinking  wine

Only to discover he wasn't a man of self pitty

Or given to defeat

He found himself a new hobby

Leaving the alcohol  underfeet

So he gathered up some animals

Built himself an unconventional farm

With a few Pigeons and Pheasants

And an old hound  dog

To protect the race horse in the barn

When his ageing body failed him

Many came to pay their final respects

Discussing all the kind things he'd done

From lending out his truck

and paying a friends financial debt

My father wasn't a church go'er

Believing the walls would cave in on him

for passed transgressions he'd done

Still I think he met God somewhere

Simply because of his selflessness

and courage to overcome

I don't know if there are Angels

Humble enough to walk our carnal streets

But if there are

I'd bet they'd dress in old barn clothes

And they would walk with pigeon feet

The End

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