"Yeah thanks," I say, as I slam the receiver down. I already know what he wants. It's God again, calls me each hour, hopes maybe this time I'll cave. He's selling eternal life. More insurance! He claims he'll keep calling forever. I'm going to cut the wires. Or not. Maybe God is lonely. What a job, selling eternal life forever. No time off. No boss to say "Take a break." Your co-workers don't invite you for drinks. Even in a mansion on a gold street, angels fluffing the pillows, it's gotta get stale. Even God must sound monotone and phony.
OH ME, OH MY
Lanky at fifteen, Jason stands up and closes his eyes. Dressed in his black suit, Pastor Clack raises his arms, says "Let us pray." He thanks God, begs Him to enter the hardened hearts of the same sixty people who come each Sunday. Jason shifts from foot to foot, pretends he's on Survivor. Prayer is the one school that never stops for weekends or summer vacation. I'll stand here forever, he thinks. Like rain, it stops. Those seven minutes died in a jar called church. Jason drops onto the hard pew. Sun through stained glass, a yellow bike pedaling off.
KENNETH POBO teaches Creative Writing and English at Widener University in Pennsylvania. His new poetry collection, Glass Garden, will appear from WordTech in 2008. He says, "It's fun (yet challenging!) to fit everything into exactly 100 words."He loves to garden and collect 60s records. File him under "Shondells, Tommy James and the." Catch his "Obscure Oldies" radio show on Saturdays from 6-8pm EST at WDNR.com. His email is: firstname.lastname@example.org.
The motivation for these works remains his secret...