The Pope awakens in Nigeria
with a pen in his hand.

“I write to you, most esteemed
friend, in the hope of
succor in this hour of darkness.
I am Karol Wojytla, former Pope
of the Most Holy Roman and Apostolic
Catholic Church…”

He is aghast at
the foolishness of this. Is he not
a humble servant of God, the Holy Father
of millions, infallible in matters
of faith? Why should he need validation
in the Afterlife? Had he
had it wrong all along?

“…Due to recent uncertainties in
my life and times, I have been deprived
of my birthright and seek to protect what meager
resources I have left…”

Still trembling, he puts the pen down. He wants
to go to the window. All those people below him
in the street, waiting for a blessing…

Yes, that’s it. It’s all familiar now.
He shakes no longer, even as he begins to understand.
He looks out of the cinderblock frame
of the window, high over Lagos,
just another man
with a plan. Nothing’s changed, except this:
no one looks back at him.

“…I write to you now, as last hope
of deliverance, that I will transfer to your
account…”

What? What does he have now?
What will make them look?