Amen

She fastened the last button
on her creased white shirt.
TV buzzed.
Something about a tornado alert.
It was Thursday.
She's late on Thursdays
probably because her mental meter
strikes BURNOUT by midweek.
Her phone was plugged in overnight
but the bars are still low.
Can you charge me now?

The bottle of lotion
has been out for a week.
She hits it against the palm of her hand
as she would with a stingy Heinz bottle.
She squeezes it
hoping for one good spurt.
The bottle burps and spits.
She drops the Country Apple
into the trash
as if it had insulted her.

Quiet time
begins as soon as
the door lock clicks-
her key wriggles out and the
handle jerks back into place.

God, thank you for a new day
will you move all the ugly hybrid cars
out of my lane?
In Jesus' name I pray
Amen

She'll be home after the mailman
drops off letters,
after the gardener
takes a sip from the hose,
after the school kids
march out of the bus,
after the sparrow visits
and leaves five to seven times.

She'll smell like
coffee
paper
and peanut butter
the chunky kind.
She'll scoop dinner into my metal bowl.
I'll smack my lips once I'm done.

Mail's here.
Gardener sipped.
Sparrow takes long on her third trip.