Angels (a poem by tex norman)

I wish I could count them as they descend
on that dance floor set up on a pens head.
If only one would shake the depression
out of me as if melancholia
was like shards of salt and after that I’d
discover I have a WONDERFUL LIFE.
I’d like to sink down into the folds of
an overstuffed chair and listen for the
tintinnabulation of the bells as
St Peter was passing out sets of wings.
I’d like to think that even angels have
some opportunities for advancement.
You know, Michael, slays a dragon and then
rises to the rank of Saint. I wish to
God that God had a special message for
me. Then I wonder what sort of message
would merit an angelic courier?
And what sort of delivery system
might the Almighty employ? Handwriting
on the wall, perhaps? I’ve been weighed in the
balance, and I have been found wanting. Tell
me something that I don’t already know.