Softly, Thy Saint

He approaches the dainty cherub, the one in need of a task,

The one hunched over, the one in the corner,

Sat at the gregarious, wooden desk,

He asks the cherub, oh please, may you rub my back,

Do me this favour, oh please,

The cherub, without thinking, nods,

It wafts, and begins gently brushing,

Applying a zephyr ointment,

An exuberant scent,

Indulging the aching column, the tensioned fibers,

The cherub listens to Him,

No, not there, a little to the left, down more,

Squeeze a bit more,

The cherub obliges, careful of His whims, respectful,

Unconditional, the cherub is content,

The cherub ignores its hurting arms,

Ignoring its defeathered wings,

The blemishes it cannot mend,

After some time, He rises, partially relieved,

Not fully healed, but in better repair,

I will visit tomorrow too, if that’s alright, He says

The cherub nods dutifully, and He walks away,

The cherub returns once more to the grotto, the amicable antre,

The tired cherub smiles,

Another note in its music sheet,

It is Delighted,

to have helped His plight

to have been asked in the first place

and to be promised the chance anew