To Being This Human
Sometimes I think the earliest ancestors worried as I worry.
Maybe they counted footsteps to keep themselves calm.
Maybe they saw a complex pattern to being this human.
I know people experience hurt on a spectrum of important to quite a bit.
Our little feet tucked inside our little shoes.
Our arms and legs open to the world.
I have a maternal moment on the sidewalk.
My brother is inside my head.
I don’t speak of him very often except for now.
My maternal worry wants to know more than I am able.
I am older and accustomed to protecting although failing with him.
He inhabits an anger I cannot traverse.
Buddha teaches impermanence.
I liken that to navigating white on white on white forever.
While people sleep nobody here can see what I see.
The fluorescent lights make us look sickly.
If I were to participate in a club where we all looked out for one another
I would recommend him as a member.
Moving around as unfamiliar goods there would be much to work on.
We would be allowed to sigh over the smallest things.