THE PHONE CALL

At the Springfield Chapel of Rest

we gathered in our second-best suits,

each with a hint of black.

We were there to see off our friend Sal

as from some cheerfully plastic railway terminus.

The velveteen curtain

was closing electronically,

hiding her progress towards the furnace,

and Pete, the elderly priest

in creamy white,

had begun to read the commendation

when my mobile played

Rossini’s Willian Tell.

Heads forced themselves not to turn.

Naturally I switched the mobile off,

which, as you so rightly say,

I should have done long before,

edging out of the pew past blazing eyes.

Outside the noisy door

I saw my caller’s number, 666,

and dialled it back.

‘Hi, Nick, ’ came a voice

sounding very far off. ‘This is God.

Just wanted you to know

that Sally’s safely arrived. No hassle.

She sends her love. ’

‘Can I hear that from the horse’s mouth? ’ I asked.

‘No – but you can hear it from her. ’

When I returned to the chapel

and told everyone the good news

you can’t imagine how hostile they were.

Pete took advantage of his microphone

to quote from Proverbs:

‘Answer a fool according to his folly, ’

which he proceeded to do.

The mobile trilled again.

I advanced towards the ministrant

who was hiding behind his lectern.

‘For you. It’s God again. ’

‘Yours isn’t the only mobile, Nick. ’

He pointed, and I looked round.

Four large nurses were making for me,

hands outstretched.