The Slow Leak

I reached for a receipt in my winter coat

and pulled out a card with a saint’s face.

The laminate is peeling at the corners,

the plastic cloudy like an old eye.

I tried to say the grace from Sunday dinner,

the one about the daily bread and the hands,

but the middle of the sentence is just a hole.

It’s not that I stopped believing all at once,

just that the sugar in the tea

has finally disappeared.