Morning Prayers

Sitting at the counter
sipping coffee
while the cook cuts limes
in perfect wedges,
oblivious to your prayers
for the lost and the numb,
for the broken who seem so sure,
prayers
for those who fight back
against the darkness,
or bask in their madness,
proud, arrogant and
secretly afraid
even as they wield their swords.
You pray
and for the moment
the restaurant falls silent.
Your soul clambers
into the quiet of the searcher,
seeking strength
far beyond your own,
wisdom that is always
just out of reach
as
the cook finishes
and cleans her knife
on her black apron
and turns away
as your eyes stare into space,
lost in your prayers
for strangers and lovers,
for the almost known,
for the dancers and the dead
who still breathe,
prayers that lack words,
silent screams that have no outlet
too often ignored
by those who matter most.

You finish your coffee
and leave a fine tip
for the neglect,
just what you needed
on this grey city day.

And you leave,
your prayers following behind you
like a kite,
their colorful tails
dancing in the wind,
reaching for the sky.

Abut this poem.

I pray each morning. Sometimes they are as sane as the ones above. Mostly they are less so. This was written after prayers yesterday, at a breakfast counter in downtown Washington, DC.

The picture was taken in my church Easter Sunday.

Tom