I say puny prayers,
Not quite half-hearted,
Though I don’t know what.
Zest, Zeal, a major lack.
Where in the liturgical vocabulary
Is the rank order of asking, receiving,
Should I be
Or merely letting the pain in my patellas
Knowing He despises
As a slap in His nonexistent face,
I stay away from smarmy platitudes
Wondering what is left.
My saintliness, feeble as an attempt at
Godliness, is a joke,
A stand-up’s misstep,
A fall off the stage
Into the seven-circled
I hear, a Voice,
Not like kettle drums,
“That’s okay, My Child,”
“Heaven’s just a rainbow ride away.”