Scattered

Scattered

Each morning when I walk and try to be one
with the path through the park
I'm everywhere else instead.

I've approached life as I've approached faith,
a bit of this, a bit of that.

The journey today
is from bed to desk and back.
I wake at five and look at my phone
read news headlines that send me
back to bed.

Years ago I used to wake at five to write in the dark
on those still unpublished novels.
Today I'm devoted to
coffee and cats
napping and baseball.

But Saturday night in the jazz club
cabaret seats right at the stage
I watch Stanley Clark and his band
bass and violin
piano and keyboard
tabla and drums
call and response
notes and song
each body an instrument

I want that still: to be one with my pen,
or pencil, or the rhythm of my fingers on the keyboard.