Nothing to do with Zen – Poem

Nothing to do with Zen

This poem has nothing to do with Richard Brautigan

After the rain fell for a year
I began to notice puddles were nothing new.
You told me I would begin to realize these things.
I was feeling the great ache. A new version.
Upgradable to wisdom for a price.

Pray for us now and all the hours
until we reach a safe place.
The cat knows what that is.
When did I lose my last molecule of patience.
The snow was trying to be rain
And failing against my windshield.

we use words
to dissect our experience,
put distance and padding and forgetfulness
between ourselves and the present. We know.
We spent time figuring out the past —
the outcome tax calculation
the night before the filing deadline.
Counting. The annual
comedy fest evolves curiously.
You know what I mean.

A gurgle and a giggle and the pushing rush of all that
turned inside out
like your sweater that you rushed
to pull off,
the miracle of that everyday magic trick.
Strong hands and patient eyes.

And when the sun goes out
like an old light bulb when you switch it and it says gone
in a joke without a punch line. .
You nod like an old soldier in the front
of an old fire    in an old chair
and the kitten attacks the dancing
fire flickers   on the black tile     before the fireplace
in a home you knew.

So many obstacles, none of them
created by anyone else.
Must be elves, no
and not escaped midgets from the circus.
All my work.
It is only love.
It is only joy and another roll
through the car wash for souls.
I have a coupon for two.

Author: William J. Gibson

62 year old - writer/photographer Canadian, survived open heart surgery, received kidney transplant, sometimes dour, sometimes amusing, over six feet in height, severely follicle challemged

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