On my knees,
beads in hand
for the last six weeks
reciting the old prayers
of childhood.
Sometimes
remembering things
forgotten.
Recalling people
of the past.
And
meditating on the
mysteries
of Jesus
and my life.
This should be
boring as hell,
repetitively stating
my status as a sinner.
Asking the Father
for my forgiveness
as well as others.
Requesting Mary
fifty-three times
to intercede for us sinners.
Instead when finished
I sense
an unrecognizable boredom,
not because I’ve practiced it
many times before,
because I haven’t;
not because it’s old hat,
but because it’s still too new.
