Sunday Morning

Since I've stopped praying
I've got so much more done:
the fridge is cleaner, I read more fiction,
the telephone is less often off the hook.
Since I've done away with God
I've done the bathroom up
and tried a dozen different recipes.

Since I've stopped considering the nature
of the soul, the infinite, all that,
I've found the joy of gardening,
I garden without concern
for the intricate glory of the Hollyhock.
The news is always on, the multitudes
keep dying, and what's one less prayer
circling the stratosphere?

He'll find me, if he chooses,
hell lift me like a woolly two-year-old,
secure me to the fold. Meanwhile
I'm eating chocolates in bed,
the words of the psalms dissolving like an old dream,
I'm right here with a magazine,
—Shock New Pictures, All Your TV Favorites—
the church bells making a distant din,
the duvet warm and comforting,
the tumble dryer just spinning, and spinning.

Copyright © 2009 Kathryn Simmonds All rights reserved
from The Manhattan Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission