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.