Waiting at the bus stop
So many imaginary ropes
Pull me in all directions
But the one I should take
Like a dog on a morning walk
I run amuck
From one thing to another
Sniffing and tasting
Marking each site I go
Thinking this is it.
Distractions entice me
Like the apsaras luring the saints on deep meditation
Like the omnipresent sale signs
Like those get rich quick pop up flashy commercials
Like one dollar Chinese gourmet dishes
Like the photos of ever young on magazine covers
I want to have them all
And collect like a squirrel before the winter
I pile up what I think I need
I think I am good at
What I would like do
But suffocate myself with noise
Never realizing the music of my essence
At the end I see myself
Still waiting but aging
At the bus stop.
((*.*))
May 2003 |