This Bowl
this bowl of striped beads
clinging to each other rolled into each other's space:
this is my life
I try to pull some from the gob
place one in front
the boy playing on our yellow porch,
an old woman talking to me about death
but all roll as one, circle of circles, no beginning, no end
I feel you watching, waiting for answers
no need to look at your perplexion,
between anger and some anguished desire to understand
I could tell you this is my life
no eight, nine, ten, no j, k, l,
just a circled mash, no first no last
if you had a string and your own bowl of beads
one would lead
they would march onto the string
in your precious order a patient line
the past behind, the future ahead,
the boy on the yellow porch would slip on early
but the woman has not yet talked to you of dying
but always this is
my time
clinging to an eternal now this bowl of beads