On the bench. Watching.
The cars go by.
A man in a denim suit.
A mother talking to her review mirror.
A ’75 dodge truck:
You can see where the color went.
You can see how the rot falls.
You can see where the sun gets in.
There is a light upon the engine
while you are driving.
There is a light upon the sky of grease,
mud tracks trail along.
But this is paved, you say
But this is the way things must be.
Moving from place to place
flower to flower, like a bee.
We do because we do.
Is this the faith of work
or the faith of things yet to come?
I will hold you to this.
Yes. I know.
I kneel on the sidewalk,
the moon illuminates
the slender glaze of a slug tracks.
A glitter, a name written in a book
being processed down to it’s essence.
I lose myself in a blade of grass.
We must catch up. We must.
On this porch, I smoke.
The trail of blue grey
wafts into churning wind of enlightenment.
The faith of not being where you were placed.
The faith of this time
you will finish the cigarette
to where the ashes come to you.
Nod and turn and say _______.