Rush Hour

A Buddhist monk
Boards my morning rush hour train
Maybe he’s part of the Tibetan Mission
To the UN
travelling to visit this borough of New York
Where his family has emigrated

There is always room
To ponder
when a Buddhist monk enters
smiling as anyone else
seemingly comfortable and so familiar
in his holiness amidst the un-holiness
of public cross-borough transportation

It makes me ask myself why
I couldn’t have gotten up thirty minutes
earlier and practiced some yoga
to send myself off into the day with the light
beside me, as they say,
“Namaste.”

It makes me wonder how
early the monk had risen and how
many heads he’s blessed with how
Many prayers he’s sent into the Universe
And would I be just as blessed
If he were to graze my head as I passed by?
I stood close for the chance to receive
my blessing

I suppose from where his home is
and the places hes travelled to
he must have seen all and been phased by none
I wonder if anyone else questioned themselves
this morning as they rode in the presence of enlightenment
Surely the man across from me
eating a can of Pringle’s for breakfast must have
silently vowed to better his health

Chance, the person who can’t decide if
they’re more comfortable as my friend or my foe

The day passes in a speeding blur
I don’t know if im having a good time
or losing in a whirlwind of living
without thinking
It’s hard to focus and everything I do
is subject to indictment by my own mind
Honestly
I’m not quite sure what I’m doing,
but I’m doing the best goddamn job of it still

I hurdle, 400 meters at a time
with baton in hand, counting my blessings
in the storms of
‘I want’, ‘I wish’, ‘I should’
hoping there’s someone around the bend
to pass the stick off to
so I can feel victory, just a sip of it, for a moment
and understand the feeling of
‘I am’

Choice, the illusion which so easily triumphs
over my friends and my foes.

I look around to see who’s watching me
the familiar face I catch is my own
I run and as fast as I run I am still earthbound
I swim and hide under the depths
but am purged upwards on land
here, where my battles are.
I didn’t get to choose.

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About Margaret Wang

In this crazy World, if we have something to say we should say it; whether in word, song, dance or paint. As writers, we write what we must, what we see, what we feel and what others experience but cannot articulate or understand. This is the duty and power of the writer; to release into the world our visions and our passions as if bleeding dry. Here at Stuck Pig I give you my word and hope that my voice reaches like minds so they know they are not alone, and unlike minds so they may share my glasses for a day. This is life lived as me, digested by me and translated for anyone caring to step out of their shoes for a few paragraph’s length. I am vulnerable and opinionated. You may judge me justly or unjustly, as I judge the rest of the world. I invite you to view Life through my window. View all posts by Margaret Wang

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