My angel contacted me again today, this time from California,

where she is trying to fit into the new Angel program, the next thing, beyond spirituality,

something fresh, an Angel App.

They are into mobile devices up here, she said, it is the rage.

The staff is cut in half, the work-load has doubled. And so the world is filled

with the greedy, the angry, the fearful, the arguers.

The old pros have all retired, been bought out,

or laid off.  Some big names. But I saved a million souls, complained my buddy

Amatiel. I was famous, important. God knows my name, ask him. I was the

Angel Of Truth, for God’s Sake. You can’t just let me go.

We are sorry, they said, but you don’t fit into things now.

We can let anybody go.

We check in by text, recorded messages.

Once a month.  No face time. E-mail, maybe.

I try to keep my passwords straight,

and wait on the phone for customer service.

I carry my photo ID at all times. Shoes off while in flight.

Can’t carry flutes or lyres anymore. Security risk. Chariots are junked,

left up on clouds. Get signed releases. Do you know the name of your first dog?

Your best friend’s Uncle’s Piranha?

The Lord, too,  she says, has to answer to the prophets and the priests, and his Board,

and the word in heaven is production, efficiency, a leaner angel force with a better bottom line.

God is off on Jupiter, organic farming. Meditating, hiding from Google Maps.

No more expense accounts for us, or silver glitz on the wings. Part-time jobs.

No more cherubim. Take a plane if you can.

Go on coach and pray for good weather, or make it. No more wine or

gourmet meals.

You can’t save anybody anymore, they don’t believe in angels, just commentators on

cable TV. We are not relevant. The young mostly laugh at us, and do not “like us.”

Spirituality

is just a genre.

I’m not complaining, she says. But we angels must now

buy their own wings, gowns and sandals. Worried about money,

for the first time since creation. How can I retire?

I hope you are well. I care about you.

This message may be recorded

for quality control, to insure that you are loved and cared about,

and your soul is burnished, and bright,

please hear my sad complaint.

It is tough, to be forgotten.  You never,

forget. When you weren’t.

You know the song, I know you do.

No martyr is among us now,

who we can call our own.

And hey, you’ll be interested in this, she said.

I just got a Kindle, she says, I know, I know, you’re a writer,

and  you love bookstores and all,

but  I know you just got one, (I am  your angel) and who can

pay $25 for a book any longer?.  I’m too old to carry all that paper in my pouch.

I dreamed I saw the Lord, she said, alive with every breath,

and told him I was tired.

I told him my financial adviser says I can never stop working,

just like all the humans down there. So call me if you need me,

e-mail me, leave a message.

And oh. I put my fingers to the sun,

and bowed my head and cried.