New Dragons

I don’t feel that I am good at praying,
but nor do I feel good at getting out of bed,
nor pulling on the tendons, the muscles,
nor bending the arms, nor undressing and washing.

Even the simple, daily ablutions come with effort,
the spirit and body protesting
their tired chorus every step of the way,
the old self objecting to today’s new mercies.

But prayer comes with fiercer objections,
every fiber of my being erecting its pride,
its cynicism, suspicion, and doubt;
prayer comes with ever new dragons to slay,
ever new selfish ambition to lay
prostrate, unto death, unto bended praying knee.