Walter Smelt III
It’s more trouble than it’s worth, I swear.
He said when He’s coming back but now
I can’t remember, and He gets so mad
when you call about stuff, His voice
thunderous and tinny through the phone:
“What do I pay you for?” Whatever He pays me
isn’t enough. His fish are dying, I can’t figure out
why. Whenever I break something, it’s really old.
He won’t even let me use the car, so I’m
stuck here, a thousand miles from
everyone. I tried to get my friends
to come out for a party once, but suddenly
we all spoke different languages. So that
was a bust. Once a week the Popemobile
comes by, but he only makes it this far
because he forgets God’s away. Sometimes I picture
the two of them playing dice together,
drinking wine, both cheating, making up
stories about when they were young. I swear,
this is the last time, and then He’s on His own.