Him, the Archangel

Under the yellow lamplight he waits,

With his five o'clock shadow, even though it's eleven now.

The moonlight is hiding behind the clouds,

Afraid to touch him. On the desolate streets,

A car whizzes by, the few signs of life left

In a city that's gone to sleep for the night.

Black attire camouflages him perfectly

Behind the veil of the night shadow.

He lights up a cigarette-

"Just a minute more", he mutters,

Impatient to get it over with,

Yet reluctant to finish it too quickly.

No shaking hands, he’s used to this sort of thing.

Up in a hotel tower,

The last light fades out.

He throws down his cigarette,

Pulls out his pistol, a glistening silver cannon,

and starts across the street.