Journey

A recluse has entered a desert, ever to trek, from town to

town. I pause, look at grass, and pet a puppy. A little boy

is laughing, and saying, “Mother, who is he?” But a

journey has just begun, forest to forest, headed for concrete

grounds. A bus is nearby, eye-soaring and blessed. This is

our life, a dozen plans, and so unfamiliar. I heard it when

he yelled, “Jesus is coming.” I then walked a freeway bridge,

headed for Century City. A friend passed a cigar, babies

yanked at pants, and something unseen was stared upon.

We smiled for the years, akin to St. Paul, feeling winds and

sunshine. We parted ways, headed for the phones, but lines

were busy. It’s no longer me, Lord: I’ve lived and died only

to live some more. But I ask a favor: an unsaid favor; and a

spirit utters what a soul can’t. I’m thankful, seat to seat,

and plaque to plaque. I told a friend the nights are warm,

and summer is two months away. We sipped a glass in

celebration, and soon departed.