I
got up from sitting at my grandmother’s kitchen table
Typing
another poem into my laptop as she watches her seven thirty a.m. constitutional
Video
of cable television local broadcast of Catholic mass from St. Louis Cathedral
Welcoming
all those in prisons, home-bound, and nursing homes
Monday
morning, I am living with her as I try to sell my house in another city
She
spots me approaching from her sofa-pew saying,
“It’s
that time again. Another week already.”
I
hug her, kiss her on the cheek
My
reply, “Grandma weeks are only an illusion to perspective.
They
do not exist, same for Mondays.
Now
is the only time that matters and what we choose.
Otherwise
you are living like you are already dead.”
I
walk out to my car to commute to work.
She
goes back to the lector’s gospel reading.
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