Dear Pope

In the morning when the Pope arises
from his sleep, he rings a little gold bell
and a man dressed in Shakespearean garb
brings him tea and the Vatican times.
I'm making some of this up, so play along.
But then the Pope uses the bathroom,
brushes his teeth, takes a quick shower,
for the day is long, full of requests and
appearances. He says his morning prayers
at the foot of his bed, and then turns
on the television for background noise.
He loves Dr. Phil and how he keeps saying
at some point in every episode,
"You people have got to stop hurtin
one another." And then the Pope
goes to his computer to check his e-mails.
He rings the bell again, and asks for
a muffin with butter and honey, which
comes before the computer boots up.
He has dial up, which takes forever.
The e-mails are in the hundreds,
not to mention the spam. He googled
women's Italian boots once and has lived
to regret it. But most of the e-mails
are from good church going parishoners
of all faiths who want answers to the tough
questions in life. Why is there pain, why
do we die, why is there poverty and sickness?
What's wrong with my cat? But one e-mail
stands out this morning from a Theresa
in Richmond, Virginia. She wants to know
why her on again, off again boyfriend
won't commit to the relationship, or even
give her a good French kiss to get the ball
rollling. He just wants to cuddle, she writes,
hold hands, and that's it. He's very religious
and attends church weekly, but he has no
libido. Zip. I know we aren't married
and shouldn't go there, but geez marie,
he's got to give me something.
The pope pushes his chair back and takes
a bite of his still warm muffin,
being careful not to get crumbs upon
his shiny new robe he got for Christmas.
Hmm, he says, and removes his hat
to scratch his head. Then he looks over
at the latest stack of books on his desk.
One stands out above all the others.
A ray of light from the window illuminates
the title of the book. So he answers Theresa
from Richmond. Dear Theresa, he writes.
Move on honey, give up on this guy, this loser,
HE'S JUST NOT INTO YOU!
Happy with that answer he moves on to the
next e-mail from Stephen, also in Virginia.
Stephen asks, I want to be good, but I'm having
a difficult time. I lose my focus sometimes
and get carried away, especially after a couple
of apple martinis? The Pope shakes his head
It's not an easy question. How to be good all the time.
It's hard, the age old question that haunted St. Paul,
maybe impossible. But he can't tell him that.
He finishes his muffin and sips his tea, then
clicks off the computer. He'll have to get back
to this one. He looks out the window, the sill is
covered with a legion of pigeons. He stamps his feet
on the marble floor, but they don't budge.
He's still in his night slippers and they can't hear him.