I couldn’t find my angel this this week, so I texted her, as I know she sleeps with an Iphone in her ear,

and in a second, my Iphone pinged with an automatic reply: “I am out of the office, gone to CNN to be a

a commentator and fight about whether God is with the left or the right.”

I texted back right away, “no, no, Washington is a hell-hole, you will not be happy there,

any more than you were when you quit last year to manage a hedge fund.

I miss you. What would God say?”

This time she e-mailed me. “Between us, God is not easy to reach, although he might be getting an Ipad3.

And you know men – he is not always easy to talk to.”

I decided to drop it. “Angel, “I said. Get out of there and come to my funhouse.”

It took a second or two – she is a compulsive e-mailer – before my phone pinged again and she answered, intrigued,

“your funhouse?”

Yes, I said. My funhouse.

Where donkeys bray.

And dogs love the living and the dead,

and chase imaginary squirrels.

And chickens dance.

And daffodils sing  Hallelujah,

to the stars.

And barn cats sing to mice,

and pray in the moonlight.

And foxes play in the morning mist,

and nuzzle rabbits to keep warm.

And artists weep, and spin magic.

And mystics cry themselves to sleep,

and wait for their angels to come.

Well, she said, that is better than Washington.

Why not come to the funhouse?

I am lonely here. People do not sing Hallelujah or talk to flowers.

If you have room, I’ll come to your funhouse.

So my angel is coming to my funhouse. You can come too.