Okay, ya’ll. I didn’t get any comments on my bad poetry last time, so I’m going to assume that the ghazal about potty training is a no go. Take a look at this one, and let me know what you think.
Is this one ready to submit to journals? Does it still need polish? Should I promise not to quit my day job?
The Gospel Truth
The smoke detector in the garage squeaks,
An intermittent plea for a new battery.
I vow to ignore it and have almost succeeded
when I hear mama, mama, mama, mama—
my second reminder this is the Lord’s Day
and I need to rejoice in it. Instead, I grumble and
retrieve my alarm clock, the cuddly doe-eyed one,
ensconce her beneath the comforter
where she, too, succumbs to drowsy warmth.
Just as I drift off, closing my eyes to the
clock that declares it time to shower,
my oldest wake-up call, my trustiest alarm,
Belly-flops on the bed to hug and tickle
his sister whose squeal reminds me of
the smoke detector, still beeping patiently.
Defeated, I leave the invaded sanctity
of the bed to fix breakfast, but it is too
late to go to church, impossible to herd two
unwilling children and their equally unwilling
father into stiff Sunday clothes and stiffer pews.
Later, when all are fed and sassy, I turn on cartoons
and drink my coffee while reading the paper, wincing
at each piece of evidence that all is not right with
the world. But then it’s time for Sunday
lunch, and my only course of action is
to pray and wash away my sins
in the cathedral of my shower.