Holy Day

I gospel myself out the door,
toddler in tow, schedule awry,
trusting the carboot to have what I need,
trusting the grace that orchestrates the day

while, afluster, I stride across
traffic lights in petroleum-fueled step,
eager to evade the Good Friday appeal because,
this day as per others, I’ve no change to spare.

I gospel the fissures where the mind tends to fizzle,
the legacy of this morning’s early vigil,
my son keeping watch in Gethsemane while
my weak-willing flesh resisted the prayer.

I gospel my slack-hearted refusal of gospel.
Though Christ plays
in a thousand places, I
fragment my mind in a thousand spaces.
Calvary only is needed today.
Gospel me, here and always.

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