Like spiraling a spatula

round the bottom of a

peanut butter jar,

so am I each morning

in a futile attempt of

scraping in hopes of a

slather of meaning on a Monday.

Why is the wholeness

divided into seven daze?

Does a heart beat me, ever?

Are there breaths beneath me?

When do steps become strides?

I lick the spatula with gratitude,

wave it like a wand,

and pray for grace and mercy.

For every day is Monday, really.