Through my button eyes, I see angels and demons.
Day after day, I sit on the window sill, staring, staring.
They pass me. Some look at me, some do not.
Angels are the silent guards of the pretty, bony, crying women who wring their hands and don't eat, keeping their distance, always watching, always there.
Demons wrap long fingered hands around the arms of businessmen, smiling as their evil seeps into the hearts of the people who open them to corruption.
I like the angels, personally. They wear black coats and denim jeans. So clean and modest.
Demons never wear the same thing twice. They smile evil smiles that don't touch the red eyes that highlight their face.
Day by day, the pretty, bony women become less bony and they stop crying. They start eating. They smile and laugh. The angels disappear. They've done their job. They aren't needed there anymore.
Day by day, the businessmen aren't seen anymore. The demons smile and laugh high, cold laughs, and sit on the steps of offic