No Park Bench

There is no park bench. No leaving of the daily grind for any sacred brew. The daily is the sacred. The brew is the bubble of coffee. The humbling embodiment of a shitty diaper to change. The anger that moves. Sadness that weeps. My joy running tiptoe up and down the hallway. The always too short daily reunion of me with my fellow flightless bird. Here's the egg. Come into my feathered wings. Then goodbye again. And again and again round we go like so many textiles in the wash. Rinse and repeat.

These words are for me. Sending them outward dancing upon lighted pixels. These words are for you too if you happened upon them. Who are you? Are you nobody too? Come here then. I'll hold you here with myself and we'll rock like the ocean until we can feel our feet again. And having found our feet we will run. 

Did you lose your voice? Did you lose your memory? Poor thing. Wanting. Wandering. Not understanding why. 

I'll hold you here. Just here and sing you a solemn lullaby. Sing to the mountain and sing to the dirt. The river will clap his hands for nothing else but the joy of it.

Did you climb the mountain into the sky? Now are you looking down upon us? Or was i just looking without eyes to see?

You are welcome in the garden always. Here with my feet in the dirt and dirt under my nails. I'll dig up the bones of years gone by. We'll plant the seeds of a tomorrow. I'll bring my tools. I'll meet you there in the dark, beautiful earth. 

I do not have have a lofty perch.

No bench. 

Just a table.

Laminate

Cushions old and tattered.

But around it tales have been told

We gather

Though not all

No, not all.

Not like we gathered that day

Under the tree

By his grave

Circled round and promised to be there

He's gone, but near.

The beads rattle.

I hear his voice.

A telephone through time.

A mind outside body. 

A dream made real.

This skin

These eyes

This body

Here I am...

I have to poop now.

Off to have poop thoughts.