“What is the devil doing over there?”
the little girl asked.
”That’s not the devil, darling.”  And the father strapped her in her carseat.

“But he’s smoking, while drinking water from a small cup.  He’s wearing sunglasses; his shirt is unbuttoned—he must be burning up.”

I checked the mail and gave the neighbor a wave as they drove off.

“His beard is so long it touched his ******—and sooo red.  Long hair and unshaven—his shirt is unbuttoned—you can see his ‘V’ and treasure trail.  Wonder what he has in his glass.”
Said the wife.

I checked the car for loose change and gave her a brief wave and wry grin as she closed the garage door.

“Do you ever see him leave the house?  Nothing but a druggie—a drunk—should get that police officer down the road to check him out.””
Said the father.

I checked on the baby—threw away the diaper, made a bottle, and tucked her away.


“How is the devil doing?” asked the little girl.
”That’s not the devil, darling,” said the mother.

I had a cigarette and a long pull out of the bottle before entering the church.

“He has such beautiful curls; clean-cut, smells okay—why are his eyes barely slit?  Talks well; not a lot, but great voice—why though?
They asked.

I went outside to do the same as they filled their coffers.

All pure white clothing, perfect hair, and a mint in my mouth.

“Mommy, is that Jesus?” the little boy asked.
“No, that’s not Jesus,” she responded.

But…