sunday

every day is Sunday
these four walls are rising with each
whispered Hallelujah
i say to myself just
to keep the peace
between my two brains

on this holy ground i do not kneel
i sit
staring up at the ceiling fan
pulled into a trance
i’ve watched the spinning blades too long

a true monks silence
i have taken an oath to keep
plaster be my stone walls
i pace about inevitably

standstill i peek my head
out the window to see
if new flowers have arrived
they sway back at me in earnest
it may be a mirage

oh Maria, how i wish my rolling hills were green
but instead
they are cement
my calves are sore
being pulled up by sheer will
and a hope that endorphins will return
my sanity
i cannot sing because i’m out of breath
let alone trill out a melody to capture the
hearts of millions

no
i will just walk back down the hill
and return to the
monastery
where my church bells
tick around a meaningless circle
to help me count blessings
not calamities

as these four walls continue
to climb
here i sit at the end of this microscope
to which God holds His eye.