can i be like Sunday?

do you think God tires?
sighs—wants a last drag of a cigarette—
as requests pile in:

protect me, help me, watch over me;
take care of this, take care of that.
even “where are my keys?”—
people pray for their car keys.

imagine billions of wants landing daily—
she must be exhausted. why do i feel
dried, cakey, used, with only a handful of tasks?
unlike God, i’ll die and never again
hear an ask.

i don’t so much fear dying
as i fear living on.
even God took Sunday—
one day off from the mess she made.