Yield

There’s the man with the limp we see in church, walking with his old lady to the corner market. Why are people wandering about clutching red mylar balloons in their clumsy hands? The busboy is cleaning the menu boards on the sidewalk in front of the coffee shop. College students are smoking on the steps, talking like philosophers, trying to impress their girlfriends. The cops are cruising in their cars with the windows cracked, their elbows jutting out in obtuse angles. Don’t blow me a kiss, give me a real one. Yield, says the traffic sign. Two little girls with unruly braids turn their brown paper goody bags upside down the faster to get to the strawberry pink lollies and chocolate hearts. May all beings be happy, the Buddha said; may all beings be free from suffering. Those girls don’t need to be told that, even if the gold foil doily hearts are stuck on upside down.

 

In response to Via Negativa: On the Way to Santiago, 1978.

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