He sits, head so far above,
a muted gold, on the giant altar
the incense rising up his chest
and clouding the eyes
of the slow parade of supplicants
who bow, recite remembered bits
of sutra, or just pause in
the semi-silence of the park.
They are all seekers, but it is only
the few lingering in the courtyard
of the great Buddha’s hall
who may yet  be enlightened.
I stand outside the hall,
bow to the ogre faced, aged,
dark, cracked, wooden Buddha
and, my back cracking
as I slowly straighten,
we share a good laugh.