Driveway Prayer

DRIVEWAY PRAYER

She tends to orient her pig-tails

towards the more elusive things: bubbles

on an April breeze, leaves scraping

down warm cement, the dog bent 

low and mischievous, a jelly-sandal

in his jaws. It bothers her little

how little she has to show

for these pursuits, how slow

she pivots when changing direction, 

how fast her vision veers for chirping

birds, airplanes, any suggestion

of the word M-A-M-A. Question: 

say she were to find it, whatever it is

she’s after—what then? Once

the dog caught a squirrel, lame

in its left leg, and they lay 

there looking at each other 

in mutual disappointment. If she were

to find you, Lord, as something

other than the faint gleam 

of a bubble barely visible over 

the tree-line—that is to say, if she were

to grow tired of chasing and grab 

you with her tiny hands—pop,

please, and sprinkle her face 

with blessing, that she might turn her eyes

upwards, asking—again—for more.