I notice him perched on my windshield
as I drive the boys home from school:
His legs like violin bows folded,
black drupelet eyes alert, antennae erect.
Perfect posture, perfect tranquility.
He holds his pose as we make our way through
the mechanical symphony of rush hour:
The the throaty hum of engines and exhaust pipes,
the whine of brakes,
the chest-thumping pulse of a too-loud bass.
We accelerate and decelerate with the traffic,
breathe in deep-fried something past the restaurants,
diesel fumes and second-hand cigarettes at the stoplight.
At last we make the sharp turn into our neighborhood,
drive by flower-lined porches on fresh-air streets.
He is still unmoved when we pull into the garage,
a tiny yogi deep in meditation
Unfazed by the journey.
When I try to coax him onto a sheet of paper
and carry him to freedom,
he hops down to the floor with one casual thrust
of his stilt-long legs, reluctantly
allows my sons to usher him out to the front lawn –
unhurried and unneedy of our attention,
knowing how to exist regardless
of what swirls around him.
Need more poetry? Get your fix: