Every day since that report,
I’ve ordered a fritter
and sat by the window
to inspect its frosting,
squinting my eyes,
for Theresa’s laugh lines
or cinnamon charred into a Shroud of Turin.
Anything to prove
there’s more for me today
than coffee and subways
and a burnt out porch light
I’ve yet to fix.
God didn’t have to make it so hard,
you know,
if He wanted me to believe.
He didn’t have to let
miracles run dry
in my century.
Another weekday.
Another secular fritter.
From the window,
I see a boy chase
a lost ball into a bush.
Thank God it’s not burning.