such is breakfast with a Buddhist poet

November 24, 2012 § 6 Comments

often, when I’m
alone, my pen
holding back in
indignation, I have
a vision

in which
I am at a table
with Milarepa
who isn’t paying
attention to anything
I have to say about
world affairs or
the point spread of
the Bowl game
or the latest offering
from Detroit, in fact

he doesn’t even acknowledge
the waitress
as she
hovers the bottomless
coffee pot over our table,
the geriatric choking
on his home fries
in the booth beside us
or even my request for him
to hand me the pepper sauce

he just sits across from me
a strangely blissful look
on his face
as my eggs get cold
and go unseasoned

his right hand
cupped to his ear
listening,
always
listening
to
the sound
of emptiness

2012 Fred Whitehead

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