On Achieving Spiritual Exile
In the background, golfers prowl the green at the Olympic Club,
stroke small white balls towards an elusive hole.
Vistas of San Francisco splay across the 48” screen
where talking heads move lips, spew words I cannot hear
I see an image
Early morning: scents of Tide and Bounce,
the churning, sloshing washer, and the touch of soft linen,
yield to the undulating voice of a professor
blathering theories of historical authenticity—
sounds emanating from my Bose,(a Teaching Company CD)
the image flashes
on the screen
of my imagination.
The girl-dog followed me into the garage
when I toted a bag of garbage and an empty cardboard box.
I closed the door, entombing her inside that darkness
and wondered why the boy-dog barked.
It took a while before I noticed she was missing.
I sense the presence,
a hand that stretches
out to my unknowing.
I walk the dogs before the heat of noon.
My cell phone rides in the back pocket of my jeans,
the Blue Tooth in my ear.
Necessary calls completed, leaving my hands free
for picking up their excrement.
(Forgot to check the level of the Truckee and the oriole nest).
I tell myself
to think about
Dishwasher beeping end of cycle,
turn up the volume, Tiger’s teeing off,
fold the clothes and make the bed,
don’t have the time to think
about that dream.
The ladder propped against the loft
(too high, too full of danger).
Strong hand that reaches down to me,
(familiar guide from long ago)
It’s safer here, well-trenched within the land of doing.
Find comfort in the work.
Security eschews change.
This is an older poem that I’m linking to a writing prompt I’m hosting over at Into the Bardo on stream-of-consciousness literature and poetry. Stop over and join in if you can.