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.