Lately, I’ve been putting prayer on the to-do list.
I know, I know: there’s something spiritually amiss about this,
a lack of authentic devotionality, a careless mix-up of
the self-help priorities.

Worse, it’s sometimes sixth, or seventh on the list.
Some days, I don’t get there.
Some days, not quite getting my work done,
and staring endlessly at the tube,
or at the infernal, lithium two-by-four,
exhausted and aimless,
will have to count, somewhere, as prayer.

My son does me one better: he took the family calendar –
on the internet these days –
and wrote “exist” across every day,
Sunday to Saturday. That’s my kinda life goals.

So, today, I breathed in, again,
and out, once more. I’m here.
Not through any valiant effort, personally,
though the atoms in me have
coursed across vast space, planting cellular gardens
that defy the flaming sword of time.

Later, maybe, I’ll pray. Which isn’t as much as it sometimes sounds:
I breathe in, and I breathe out, and in snatches, I meet my maker.
I exist. I mark the calendar, and look at the sky, I’m here.
To-do list accomplished, another day, thanks to me and mine,
in the win column.