OK.
And so after breakfast on Sunday morning, we'll
go take a walk in the neighborhood
and this sort of goes to that.
It's called Neighborhood Buddha.
Speaking simple words, ornate wisdom,
I walk like the neighborhood Buddha.
Visiting the dry cleaner, the thin blonde
bleached in hair and pallor.
Smiles crookedly as she receives my laundry secrets
my need for ritual cleaning.
Why is the lesson never learned?
Our exchange signifies more than history
wrought by senators and generals when she chooses to listen.
I tread to the next task opening the hardware store,
a mystery of latches, wires, screws, and metals
folded into aisles requiring another education.
My words curiously stored are useless here.
The chores end with a tribute to the sky.
Blue, clear cloudless and accepting.
Tea and egg salad await my travel into afternoon nap.
Slowly fading as the week ends in peace.