GIVE US THIS DAY

The old bus shelter
has spray painted walls
and a broken metal bench.
Each morning
he shuffles
up the hill,
a battered leatherette
briefcase clutched tightly
in his right hand,
a copy of the Seattle Times
“Nixon in China”
in the other.
He sits calmly
on the bench
case between his knees
and waits patiently
for the bus
that hasn’t run
this route
for the better part
of sixteen years.
Still, he waits
until the sun
sinks behind
the 7-Eleven,
when he shuffles
down the hill
toward his small apartment
satisfied with another day
successfully done.


 

URBANITY

Walking down this road
I would like to see a rice field
golden in the morning sun
with a great mountain rising behind it
just around the next bend.
I would settle for a town
its lone Temple quiet, awaiting
the morning bell, the call to sit,
with maybe a cat at the base
of a statue the Bodhisattva.
I am ready to bow deeply
to the first monk I see this day,
but my reverie is broken
by the barely dodged wave
thrown up by  city bus
running late and fast
down the crowded street of
this upstate New York city.

RIDE

There is a man standing at a bus stop. He waits at this bus stop each day, regardless of the weather. He is waiting patiently for a bus that will not come, the bus line was discontinued many months ago. He has a cast on his leg, but it doesn’t seem to bother him. It is old looking and you suspect the break is healed, but he hasn’t gotten around to having the cast cut off. I consider for a moment at least stopping and offering him a ride. I know he will decline.  He knows the bus will not come, but he is going nowhere, and here is where you catch the bus going there.