These early morning mournings cannot last,
can they? These efforts at meditation
turning into stuttered weeping so fast
and brief, stop and start like a hoarse engine
in winter dawn. If you challenged me to
explain you’d only see me mute, staring
out as if the Second Coming nailed you
to a cross I could not see. I’m bearing
my own and can’t let go, body dropping
hard on harsh cobblestones, bare skin scraped raw,
wet eyes glaring at all, no one stopping
to even consider me. I once saw
Buddha pass by. I, in wild contrition,
screamed out. Not even he paid attention.
Roger Armbrust
July 4, 2020
