They Slur All The Prayers They Say For Me

He hears them complaining most every night, he tells me.
Says he hears their thin angry voices breathing from his oven
where he stores his bread and pastries to keep the cat from getting at them.
Hears them when he gets a late night glass of water from the jug in the fridge.
They’re not very pleasant, he assures me over lunch.

His angels are never very pleasant and he always finds them in his kitchen.
His toaster once shouted ‘hallelujah’ sarcastically whenever the pumpernickel popped up.
The microwave sang hymns whenever he heated up leftovers and so he learned to enjoy cold food. Really disturbing, he tells me.
Horribly off key, and they never get the words right.

What do the angels talk about, I ask him, watching him open a bottle of nice beer and place it on the top rack in the oven.
They just guzzle the imported stuff, he cries, pouring red wine into a paper cup and placing it next to the beer.
They say we take them for granted.
Santa Claus gets cookies, they whine in their nasal angel voices, we want croissants.
They’re rather petty that way but what can I do, they want croissants.

I’m so tempted to bake something, he hisses, my food bill is outrageous. This blessing is nothing but a hassle. I would bake something, he mumbles, but that surely must be an epic sin to cook angels. Even if they’ve got me running to the liquour store at all hours of the night.
Get the good stuff, they shout, and some diet coke to mix it with.

They’re getting quite nasty, that much gin will do it.
They slur all the prayers they say for me and sometimes I wonder if I want them speaking for me at all.