Housesitting for God

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.






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