Walking Meditation
by Odin Roark

“And I thought marriage was hard.”

Taking Meditation for a walk
nags me with why I’m such a failure at this.
It knows what I go through every morning.

I sit, cross my legs (kill myself with that lotus thing)
breathe deep, listen to my breath, et al.,
while all I hear is the traffic beyond the walls.
With eyes closed, all I see are
re-runs and first-runs, trailers, montages, full lengths,
pictures I can’t fade out.

So…

We walk,
Meditation and I.

I’m so bad at imagining anything, you know?
Distraction always finds me.
Like the mangy mutt from the brownstone
across the way. Not satisfied with just relieving
himself under a spindly tree, or on the
block’s fire hydrant. No, he strides up beside me,
insisting with a obnoxious whimper, he’ll keep
me company.

Usually, a nameless dumpster-cat finally
gets his attention, and off he chases.
Every morning. Same alley opening.

Not far ahead, panhandlers take up their craft.
Cardboard signs for begging,
or extended empty cup,
topped with the phony eyes
of an Academy Award winner.

Meditation gives me its elbow, and we proceed.
It knows the real test of concentration is the bakery.
This is a storefront that should be banned. Bagels.
Not just any kind of bagels, the best. That aroma
alerts the nose and the eyes just give up. The ears capitulate.
and I hear nothing. My eyes see nothing. And for a moment,
just a moment, there is the sublime “nothingness” of
Meditation’s mission. But only for a moment.
My stomach growls its usual curse of hunger, and…

I trudge on to the flower box.
I’m blocks away from home now
and always stop in front of it.
Safely wedged between the window bars and the glass,
its lone flower, always in bloom, winks.
An all-season survivor (most likely rescued
from a Chinese restaurant table)
its faded plastic leaves and pink petals
soaks up the new life of fresh air, sunlight
and pedestrian smiles. No one passes
this window box without stopping
and staring. If you’re lucky, you'll arrive
just as the elderly lady, the mistress of
the one-room flat, raises the window
and gives the singular flower a drink,
usually the melted ice of her early
morning wake-up highball.

My doctor thinks these walks with Meditation
are good for me, but my other walking buddy,
Conscience, who inevitably tags along,
knows I’m a fraud. I can’t do introspection justice,
back there, or on the sidewalk. I can barely
make real these walks, let alone be of
any encouragement to my wannabe helpful buddy.

I’m a hopeless failure in making friends
with anything, except sleeping, and even
that relationship is starting to piss me off.
Takes up way too much time now, always
wanting my devotion, which I willingly give.

It’s just…

Well, there comes a time when job, marriage,
kids, you know the drill, the whole calamity
that demands an even more special attention.

So...

Conscience says I should not give up on Meditation.
Back there, I mean. Back in the padded cell
they gave me. The place I never leave
except for these walks that seem to go nowhere.