Loneliest of days, cruel Sunday. A day to sleep late. To wake in the afternoon with the dread still on the world and sickly yellow sunlight through the bathroom window. No closer to any god or being. Run the water. Sit. Oh, it’s too hot to, then sweeten it. The plumbing is bad. The tub takes too long to fill. Give me this day in exile for all my imagined sins. I leave my faith in a pants pocket, feel the water on my skin.