Loneliest of days, cruel Sunday.
A day to sleep late. To wake
in the afternoon with the dread
still on the world and

sickly yellow sunlight through
the bathroom window. No closer
to any god or being. Run
the water. Sit.

Oh, it’s too hot to, then
sweeten it. The plumbing is
bad. The tub takes too
long to fill. Give me this

day in exile for all my
imagined sins. I leave my faith
in a pants pocket,
feel the water on my skin.