Tonight God is not enough
so he calls too late
and my wife hisses,
“For Christ’s sake,
tell him you’re busy!”
But how can I
when I picture him
lost on his twin bed?
He says it’s one of those Sundays
they thumbed through hymnals
as he preached
and felt an eternity away.
What can save you
when you live all week
for just one moment
then they sit
as if they’re waiting for a bus?

So I stay on
even though she’s pissed
and it’s past midnight
and I’ll hate myself in the morning.
But he sounds on the edge
of panic, like a saint
who fears prayer
is just talking to himself.
I figure, what the hell,
when I hang up, I’ll turn into her arms
but he’ll have only the almighty
loneliness of speaking to Jesus,
his hands touching only his hands.