Prose Poem: The Buddha's Top Hat.

 

I fell through my own mind,

to land on my feet like a cat.

Dusting myself off, I proceeded

to take action without thought.

Was it instinct or habit

that caused me to knock

the top hat off the elderly

man I met on the road?

Either way, he thanked me kindly

for my action --

and I realized he was Buddha.

Then I hid my face and wept.

But he was gentle with my 

immaturity,

saying: "The Original Sin

of our First Parents lay in

giving names to things --

for you can only desire what is named."

Later on at the shy lake 

I pondered anew the relation

between pure thought

and pure action.

I used the Buddha's top hat

as my thinking cap on the shores

of the coy pond -- 

to conclude that there was 

no conclusion. That I must be,

not think of being.

In quick order I:

blew my nose using my thumb

ate grass like Nebuchadnezzar

watched the sky remain blue

felt an ant crawling up my arm

observed the ice age

shook hands with myself

and let slip the banana peel of doubt.

Then was I at peace --

or so I thought until my lunch hour was up.

Back at the office I put on my mask,

sat at my desk,

and deleted emails.

Someone had left a half-eaten

 pepperoni pizza in my trash can.

Then I hid my face and laughed.