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.