Tomorrow is the day that I
will tidy up the room

and look you in the face and cry
about the misplaced broom.

Hoping against hope that I’ll do
all those things I said,

you’ll say “you know that I love you
for trying, now make the bed.”


The just man keeps his eyes on You
for days and months and years,

but I can’t seem to even do
a second of these prayers

without inviting every thought
devoid of You to bed.

I dim the light, but then am sought
by common guests unfed.