The elderly, up at dawn
wash down steps and curb.
At three in the afternoon,
inside a small cottage,
an old man drones a sutra.
The temple's closed
but the bells toll.
On this street
rinsed clean each day
children scream in play.
At night it hosts the dog-walkers and insomniacs who,
meeting, pass with a nod.
It's true that under the moon
our masks come on and off irregularly
patterns of forgetfulness, a daze,
rather than defiance.
Self-reliant, the stray cats are always here
clearly intrigued by the lessening of us
plus ever-hopeful, as cats are, that less
will mean more for them.
wash down steps and curb.
At three in the afternoon,
inside a small cottage,
an old man drones a sutra.
The temple's closed
but the bells toll.
On this street
rinsed clean each day
children scream in play.
At night it hosts the dog-walkers and insomniacs who,
meeting, pass with a nod.
It's true that under the moon
our masks come on and off irregularly
patterns of forgetfulness, a daze,
rather than defiance.
Self-reliant, the stray cats are always here
clearly intrigued by the lessening of us
plus ever-hopeful, as cats are, that less
will mean more for them.
