Sunday Prayers
by Wayne R Bornholdt
Only a flicker/over the strained time-ridden faces/distracted from distraction by distraction/
filled with fancies and empty of meaning/tumid apathy with no concentration/men and bits of
paper, whirled by the cold wind/that blows before and after time...
—T.S. Eliot, “Burnt Norton”
Before my Sunday prayers,
the sunrise must be monitored to be
sure that it is not taking the day off
or sleeping in.
I look for deer tracks in
the deep snow in my front yard,
checking on their winter wanderings.
The second cup of coffee must be
drained with suitable amounts of
sweetener and cream:
the soft introit to my day.
There is always the morning news—
a harvest of planned mayhem, the fiery
head-on crash, all hidden beyond recognition
unlike Daniel’s three friends.
My money needs attention; on-line banking
tells me I have enough to cover
my debts but not my sins--
as varied as the UN General Assembly.
I see there is laundry to do and the garbage
must be removed—its power bar wrappers,
the debris from another Amazon package,
the junk mail offering new windows and doors,
the appeals of misshapen children.
Of course, I need the comfort of
my cereal, laced with dried cherries and
cranberries—a sacrament if there ever was one.
Josquin or Zevon? A holy question.
The Masses are too much to absorb
on this set-aside morning. I will listen
to “Sentimental Hygiene” and kiss
my CD with its scratches and circular bruises.
Bear with me I say—I cannot find
my glasses which heal the blind man
without spit or dirt.
I count the unread books, the piles
of ink-filled paper, apparently limitless
and I have little time,
on this day before my Sunday prayers.
Wayne Bornholdt is a retired bookseller. He holds degrees in philosophy and theological studies. He lives in West Michigan with his wife, three Golden Retrievers and stacks of unread books.
