Prayer: "A Prayer for Growing Up at Thirty-Five" by John Shea

I am still looking
for footsteps to follow
like the phony feet
they paste on dancing room floors.
I do not want every day to arrive
like a blank page in a typewriter.
I want the clarity of a slice of moon
and the security of a lottery winner.
My soul yearns
for a turn-of-the-century Eden
with a weekday lunch at home
and jam preserves in mason jars
and naps on the swing
after baseball and beer.
On weekends
I want my mind to click off
like a construction site at night,
I want
routine without monotony,
expectation without pressure,
money without work,
love without need
and if I do not get it,
I will hold my breath
till my face turns
as blue as a circus balloon.
But over my shoulder
a chorus of heaven and earth,
finally finding a ground of agreement,
chants like marchers for a doomed cause,
"Oh grow up!"