GOD OF MONDAY MORNING
God of running just a little late,
Of the scraping of windshields, another month at least—
Of I cannot wear the shoes that are perfect for this outfit
(the shoe repair I paid good money for didn’t last)—
God of where the hell did the weekend go?
Those hours that stretched so wide and open Friday night—
They dried up and blew away, went down the drain—
I must not have planned each hour exactly right—
I had some fun, I got a few things done
And yet I start the work week just as behind
As ever, always, apparently eternally I am—
Compared to everyone else’s current shitstorm
I know I’m lucky. I know I’m whining and
I do praise God that some days, this is as bad as it gets.
And yet, dear God, what if this is as good as it gets?