cleaning out my refrigerator
and thinking about writing a religious poem
that somehow combines feeling sorry for myself
with ordinary praise, when my nephew stumbles in for coffee
to wash down what looks like a hangover
and get rid of what he calls hot dog water breath.
I wasn’t going to bake the cake 

now cooling on the counter, but I found a dozen eggs tipped
sideways in their carton behind a leftover Thanksgiving Jell-O dish. 
There’s something therapeutic about baking a devil’s food cake, 
whipping up that buttercream frosting, 
knowing your sisters will drop by and say Lord yes 
they’d love just a little piece. 

Everybody suffers, wants to run away, 
is broke after Christmas, stayed up too late 
to make it to church Sunday morning. Everybody should 

drink coffee with their nephews, 
eat chocolate cake with their sisters, be thankful
 and happy enough under a warm and unexpected January sun.