Kenilworth, DC 

 

Wind shifts water: brown, sky, brown.

Buddha pinks on a yellow lotus pod—

spot him, stare, see his breath

curl the leaves.  He stays there,

suspended over water, despite

the oily crust, the human waste. 

 

After all, it’s not the river’s fault

it cannot hum the tune of ships

and swimming holes— we did that

to ourselves. Buddha forgives us

but wants us to change.  He’d fund

those big swirl tanks if he

ran things.  He’d teach the children

not to throw their soda bottles

on the ground, tell the men

not to dump their oil down

the storm drains.  Come to me,

he’d say, see the river made by God

for you, play the parks and ponds. 

 

For now he sits and thinks.

It’s enough to meditate, reach in,

find his own inner peace. An egret

slips in, silent, overhead: sky, white,

sky.  See the breath of Buddha

buoy her wings.  Believe.