Stubs has the same number of names as the other angels

But they are persistent in addressing him as ‘Stubs’.

Today he wears faux ferret fur and bangles

And a frown, because too much sarcasm rubs

Even angels wrong. It’s not Stub’s fault he scrubs

Celestial floors and ceilings with his wings

Or that, in flying races, he runs rings

Around the cherubs, mixing metaphors

With miracles. His wings are wondrous things

That no feathered rival anywhere adores.