Elbow Grease

He tosses his life’s work in Tuesday’s trash
and corkscrews down a hole of despair,
alone and unknown, certain companionship
is an illusion.
                         Love circles bedside, quiet-like,
stirring just enough to be a presence,
relieving pressure, uncramping space
with a sacred spine of focused not-doing,
a special kind of elbow grease.
                                                        Prayer is
a mystery. There’s no point in thinking
about it or even using words.