A CLEAN SLATE
One sometimes forgets
how lucky one is to be alive and sober.
One sometimes forgets
one has a roof over one’s head
and a warm bed.
I never forget
to feed the pigeons
although they wake up my wife.
My hard disc registers
all the unhappiness
of the outside world
as I clean up my own act
and face the music
of another morning.
Stitches left undone,
wounds unattended,
appear in my patchwork life
with the regularity of hot meals.
One tries to be non-judgmental.
Recital of nembutsu
and deep breaths in the garden
are a cure for morning blues.
I cannot change the world,
the weather, or what you think.
Pour me a soft drink.
One sometimes forgets
one is an angel
who has not yet learned to fly.