seeking the sacred

Nothing here below is profane

for those who know how to see.

Pierre Teilhard de Chardin

double espresso in hand i

snatch the last seat on the

last morning of our last

day here, then another

goodbye and hello and

mattress, firm, soft, queen

or king, pillows made

for stiff necks

i am become a nomad,

shedding skin, new name

new place, where are you

from? everywhere

i sit alongside a window,

the late morning late

summer sun awakening, i

gaze out at michigan

avenue and grant park and

the man crossing the street

in a navy suit too heavy for

summer sweat

he shuffles, knock-kneed,

his face blank and sad

scoops me in and as i stare

at his face through the

dusty morning glass i

catch my reflection, sleepy

eyed, lines etched deep,

whispers of stories

i am become a nomad

in this face, this body,

this most mercurial of

companions, tall, short,

straight hair, frizzy

matted hair, freckles,

age spots, belly in and

out and in and out,

stories held, stories too

often forgotten

too often uncherished

now as i stare at the

wrinkled lips, i see every

line, mark, scar, scratch

and scoop it in, divine

and catch the man’s

eyes as his feet step

on to the curb and

smile and he stops

and wonders

and smiles back