To the Angel on My Shoulder (Poetry)

Instinct says it’s true — I sense sometimes the bird-light weight
                                of you
when a brief flick of feathers brush my sleep-flushed cheek
then I wait for some advice — some indication
you’re considering how to guide me through the week.

There’s times I think I hear a whisper ripple close to where
fancy dreams a guardian might be
lurking close and leaning in to learn
the full extent of my stupidity —

my lack of judgement is — in retrospect — as clear
an indication that I’m often far from wise
and a few perceptive words from one who sees
the outcome in advance — who gets what prize —

would make me listen well — and every time.
Instead my main impression’s there’s a measurable lack
of real communication — doubt that I can trust
a soul unseen to worry overmuch — or watch my back.