a flaw in the deity

nine thirteen on a Saturday morning,

my sons want breakfast

and my mortality

is so very apparent

after

I burn the frozen waffles.

never alone in the house of god

a young girl in a

tight sweater sits in

the pew just to the

west of your wife, her

long skirt doesn’t

hide the tattoo of

a broken heart

on her ankle, doesn’t

hide the spiked

open-toed shoes

or the black

toenail polish and

nothing hides the

worn and tired

blackberry, quivering

in her

white and worry

-free hand.