I wasn't entirely sure where to go with today's PA prompt to write a 'prayer poem'. Well, I wanted to go to a harder, more aggressive place with it, but since you can't really follow what XTC did with "Dear God"...ever...because it's just perfect, I went with a more lighthearted poem. The second poem is about driving home from visiting my parents in the winter.
Atheists don't pray on Easter, or any other day
While leaning back in my comfortable
leather chair, a pricey birthday present,
I hoped today that you would
not come to my door and knock or
ring the bell, disturbing my
Sunday morning's peace and quiet,
agitating my little dog, who barks
like she's a German Shepherd.
She clearly doesn't know she's a Dachshund.
I'm just never prepared for a theological
conversation before I've had my breakfast.
It was only egg whites and toast, but I'm
sure that your god doesn't send you out
in your Sunday best on an empty stomach,
and talking god without coffee in my
system is really not a good idea.
I'm thankful, blessed even, that you
didn't leave one of your little booklets
in my storm door's handle, which would
inevitably be blown out by a gust from
off the river and sent bent and flapping
against the fence between my neighbor's
house and mine, left entirely unread
and most assuredly unappreciated.
Don't be offended by my lack of faith
or my disregard for your savior.
It's just that I don't believe in
imaginary men, Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny.
Driving back from my parents' house
The red glow of taillights
are a slow burning light
that doesn't keep you awake
enough on winter afternoons
when the sun disappears by
4pm, if you're lucky, and
the trees are a rapid fire
movie in fast forward
surrounding the side windows
and the road looks blacker
than the deepest mug of
coffee that sits covered,
slowly cooling, soon to be
tossed out when you can
finally pry your dead weight
ass out of this claustrophobic
speeding bullet that you're
hoping will steer you to a
restful night of sleep, but
you know it won't be when it
just brings you back to the
routine that wears you harder
than the two hours it usually
takes to make it back home
from a house that hasn't felt
like home in over a decade.