Driving to Providence sounds too mundane,
evoking clipped-winged angels feeding tickets through turnstiles.

I philosophize as I fill my tank.
I wonder which of these words will be the first to be forgotten.

At the gas station register waits Saint Peter;
he frowns at my Red Bull, marks his ledger.
declares,

“here is the punishment humanity deserves
for intimating hints of heaven on Earth:
disappointment in dissonance
when cities fail to embody their namesakes.”

Walking through Providence (better, better),
the late winter wind reddens my skin.
I swear I was promised I’d need no jacket,
yet cannot recall the prophet — perhaps I imagined.

I duck into a cafe for temporary salvation.
Clipped-winged angels serve me coffee and doughnuts;
the lemon-matcha old-fashioned is a revelation.
All, forever, for now, is forgiven.