A devil came to me Saturday,
laughing and calling himself Charlie,
shaking the rain out of his hair.
I felt my hindsight slip
as I followed him out to his bike,
as I left my roommates watching TV.
He looked up at the sun reappearing,
and denied being a devil.
I asked him how he knew.
Because if I were, he said,
the tango would be playing
and the subtitles would be in French.
We decided to walk the short block
to the Cathedral, and on the way
I offered to be an angel of mercy for him.
He scoffed, I felt like a child.
I asked, “You were the one with me when
I ran up to the Piggly Wiggly’s
for cigarettes, weren’t you?”
He smiled, coy as a Von Trap family child
and suddenly, I knew him like the back of my hand.
For instance, and I can’t explain it, but
I knew he opens letters hours,
days after getting them.
He turns up the radio when AC/DC comes on.
He chews ice.
He chases squirrels in the park.
Being with him was like
getting drunk by osmosis and saying “fuck”
with a Christian in the room.
I constantly wanted to ask him about
Michelangelo and David, God
and Adam. These things
a demon would know.
We made it to the church,
we saddled up to the big red doors.
Charlie showed me the rings in his palm,
he asked me if I remember my vows.