One o’clock in the morning I’m sauntering home after a sweet day full of coffee and conversation and enough work to pay my bills. My old black Chucks are so worn in, they have grown wings. I don’t feel the ground, every step is poetry.
The idea of detachment has been on my mind all day. I'm blissfully detached. As a boy racer makes an attempt on my life at a pedestrian crossing, I have Roger Federer's footwork, I dance around him, then forget he exists. Anger spent on fools is below me tonight.
I weave through the bustling crowd on the strip. My mind pays no attention. My feet know which direction to lead me. They can feel the unknowable patterns in chaos.
My pace slows as I approach the heavy lads between me and my home. To speed up would be to admit intimidation. My gait tells them I'm removed from their world. The sins they have to offer are in my wake.
I smile at happy couples, walking arm in arm, step for step. I'm charmed by them. I feel I have the universe on my arm. Everything and everyone are my lovers. The rhythm of my steps is the rhythm of everything, the rhythm of everything is the rhythm of my steps. How could it be any other way, if everything is me and I am everything?
My day's thoughts on detachment conclude as my journey home is complete. I have to walk through this world on my own two feet, I can make every step poetry.
Parkstreet
No comments:
Post a Comment