Buddha walked slowly into the coffee house
and ordered a large mochachino.
He approached the sofa in the corner
and folded himself neatly and precisely
into and among its overstuffed cushions
to the delight of a five year old
pulling at his mother’s sweater
as she struggles to finish her latte.
“The body,” Buddha says
to no one in particular,
“is the finest form of origami
for even the great master Tsujimoto
has yet been able to duplicate it.”
He watches the comings and goings
constantly sipping at his always full cup.
He picks up a dog-eared copy
of the Analectics from the table
and breaks into a wide grin,
good old Con, he mutters, they never have
figured out how to translate you.
An old man, stooped and half blind,
shuffles over and, in what must
approximate a bow, says “Master
where can I find enlightenment?”
“My child,” Buddha responds, unfolding
and refolding his legs and arms,
“why do you seek it— it won’t bring you
much beyond what you have seen –
but if you truly wish to find it,
it lingers just behind you, so stop
looking, for surely it has found you,
now you let it catch you.”
The Buddha unfolds herself slowly
pressing out the seams
of her plaid skirt and shuffles
quietly into the traffic along the avenue.
My cappuccino is now cold, I think.