Hom

There I am across the street

In my yellow raincoat, 

the hooded rain hat, 

the rubber boots clanking.

 Scuffle, scuffle. 

She will read to us. 

The Black Stallion. 

I am on a cushion

made by my Dad. 

I am dreaming as

She reads. Isn't that

what listening is?

The boy is at the center

of my mind. All day

and into the night. 

In the middle of the

night I wake up. 

There is no room

for anything beside 

the horse. Everything

is the Black. 

In the morning 

I remember Her voice. 

She is reading. 

I am listening...

I am in love. 

Bhavana

I tagged the little ant as he scurried around on my car. I was parked in a city lot.
I realized I had carried the ant far from home.  Instinctively I brushed him to the
asphalt vaguely thinking it would be safer. As he danced about I began to imagine
what he might be up to. A re-orientation of sorts? I imposed an idea of destination,
wondering if the ant's idea of home included a non-local sensibility. What we did share
was an almost incomprehensible sense of each other.  But out of this musing emerged
another: that the ant's situation is mine as well.  The Great Movement is afoot everywhere.
The bigger vehicle carrying me is vast and essentially unknowable. Yet I dance, adjust
the dials, ever attenuating a desire to go home. Later, in my driveway, I daydreamed about
a tiny technology that would allow me to monitor the ant's movements. Would he adapt, resettle, carry a bodily habit that informed his journey?  Or would a mysterious directive carry him toward home. I stood there looking east toward downtown.