Might Be Is Too
My commute, like a dream, on this grey morning.
I’m conjuring questions that I want to ask
and begging my world’s concrete to crack.
In a bare bush outside my tall brick building
an old aluminum can, that held cheap beer,
has been wedged near the base for months.
My cat dashed off and scampered behind
a fenced-off alley just as I was about to
remove that garbage from that holy place
and I had to give chase. I called to her
from the fence in front of the narrow alley,
she did not come. I called to her. I ran.
I ran one way. I doubled back; called to her
and jogged down a back set of steps, down
from the third story to the fenced off alley.
She wasn’t there. She sat.
She sat down now on the other side of the fence.
I wondered if she wondered where I had gone.
I called to her; she turned and trotted back to me.
Like a dream the can’s importance had vanished as
the day rushed in. An hour later again I begged,
begged the Divine to come back to me. Begged
the concrete tunnel, with its rails of steel and beams,
to crack deeply down to sediment. I thought I’d
hug a stranger just to feel another living thing in
my arms. I walked. I walked up to the street,
the concrete and marble planters lining the walks.
I thought to the bare winter trees, you are living.
I thought to the sky with its birds, you are living.
You are what is: you are being. I looked at my feet atop
the cement, that scab and thought, well, you are made
of the living. You might be what is too. I called to Her.
I remembered the can left behind and thought, to it,
perhaps now, the holy place you’ve been wedged into
for months has made you living too. Perhaps now,
you belong there.