Granted it’s a challenge

counting every single brick in sight

of the condo tower that blocks

your sunrise view of the lake;

of course it’s not easy

faithfully projecting that sum

into the third dimension

to build a precise certainty

of everything in your way;

naturally it takes time

and not a little determination

to master such supine curiosity;

but on a Sunday morning–

the trumpet riffs still jazzing

between your eyes,

the city slowly dusting off

the bygone thrill

that soldiers out another Santa Claus parade,

the church bells silent,

on oxygen somewhere in palliative–

you remember that grace is still an option.

So you kiss the little cross

worn beneath your clothes

and shower.