The dirt and dust packs

in my slacks and shirts,

and nervous sweat dries

right above my eyebrows.

I wake up to a yellow

and brown portrait of me

staring through the mirror

at the oily hair and soiled pours.

And how long since bar soap

scarred my psoriasis skin?

Since the good Lord made me

allergic to bread at communion?

I wondered if it was a message

that I can’t do good but don’t know,

and so I still drink grape soda.

I eat gluten free chips and tortillas

to replace the wheat that hurts me,

waiting for the day when I’m whole,

no cracks or fissures to flash pain

in my fingers when I clean or play piano.

I’m waiting for the day when I feel clean.