Each Morning I Pray to the Microwave


I see God through greasy glass

or is that last week’s potato

I forgot—I am sick of potatoes

with their many staring eyes—

I prefer God to a potato most of the time

unless I haven’t eaten for days &

no feast hath been prepared at the table before me

which is most of the time since Sara left

in a bitter cloud of flying shoes, DVDs & fuck you’s

complaining my refrigerator looks like

a failed science experiment

stacks of newspapers cover the couch,

the chairs, the kitchen counters

complaining the cat rarely uses its litter box

preferring the bathmat or the carpet

or the sweaters in her closet

complaining I crunch potato chips in bed

leaving crumbs on her side

why is either side hers when I paid

for the humongous thing, lugged it up five

sweaty flights because she found my futon

too cramped, too creaky

but I am losing track here

the point is God is preferable to a potato

most of the time—each morning

I say a prayer to the blurry God

behind the glass door

hoping his many eyes are

growing nearsighted and he can’t see

the mold, the newspapers, the cat

Claire Scott is an award-winning poet who has received multiple Pushcart Prize nominations. Her work has been accepted by the Atlanta Review, Bellevue Literary Review, New Ohio Review, Enizagam and Healing Muse among others. Claire is the author of Waiting to be Called and Until I Couldn’t.