Angels Don’t Wear Shoes
In old paintings their feet fly naked.
Even now not one angel is weighed down
by sneakers or boots or brogans or sandals.
There’s something angelic about bare feet,
especially a baby’s, with its tiny toes
testing the air. Even ancient feet
gnarled with arthritis are beatific.
In heavenly summer I parole my feet
from their tight, sweaty prisons
to caress the divine grass.
The pope, I bet, thinks of angels
when he kisses
a woman inmate’s feet
that he washed in a gold basin.
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Henry Stimpson writes poems and nonfiction, sings in a rock chorus, roots for the Boston Celtics and is a volunteer ESOL tutor in Wayland, Massachusetts. His poems have appeared in many publications, including The New Criterion, Poet Lore, ONE ART, Atlanta Review, Scientific American and Lighten Up Online. Divine Details (October 2026, Kelsay Books paperback) is Henry’s first collection. It caps a journey that began in 1970, when he enrolled in Anne Sexton’s writing workshop at Boston University.
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Available through Kelsay Books or online.
