I texted my angel today, she was working part-time,
in a Dunkin Donuts near Kansas City, applying, she said,
for a temporary spot in Wal-Mart’s new Church and Spirituality
Section – the cheapest prayers from China along with many savings on groceries
Knocking out some local Churches, she said, God is like a farmer,
say the economists, not efficient, not productive enough,
they do it cheaper in the Third World,
but hey, the global economy is good for all of us. Isn’t it?
I left the corporate world, she said, to be a writer, maybe an artist.
That’s my story. Switched to being an angel, instead.
No pension, she said, but medicines paid on Plan B,
if you order them online between the half-and-quarter moons,
and pass your deductible.
Prescriptions and prayers are the same thing, she told the manager,
but he raised his eyebrows, and she reminded herself to tell him
what he needed to hear, not what she believes.
Sometimes, she texts back, I hate my job, but who doesn’t?
I love my job, I said. Well, wait until the e-book thing
mushrooms, and you’re getting 4 cents a book from the Kindle,
and you’ll be in your own booth here, she said. Poor thing.
Good on you for trying.
Downbeat for an angel, I said, aren’t you supposed to be upbeat?
Oh, sorry, she said, I thought I’d be retired now, strumming the Harp in heaven,
walking barefoot on clouds. My IRA is all shot to hell, pardon the expression.
Can’t get a speaking gig.
Sometimes I whine.
Last night, she said, I saved a soul. Found a commentator
on cable, about to go work for a Super-Pac.
Hey, I said, you will be going straight to Hell,
no stops. Hold up. Buy an organic farm near Cleveland,
turn the world around. He did.