The Sweeper
for Khyongla Rato Rinpoche
He sits on cardboard, broom against the wall.
Passers-by step around him, looking
not seeing. Taxis and delivery trucks
drone by in Chinatown street. He rises,
begins to sweep - cigarette butts, wrappers,
five-spice chicken wing - sweep sweep - dustpan
sweep sweep - drop in bin. The students approach,
push around the sweeper with his head bowed low -
they've heard the guru is magificent -
he escaped Tibet, one of the last greats, renown
friend of the Dalai Lama. One turns her nose -
such a stink of rot and decay - one cuts off
the custodian shutting the door in his face -
one keeps talking to a friend about connections
to the great guru. A new student turns to the man
with broom, and holds the door open for him -
Shall I hold this for you sir?
He smiles and tells her to go ahead.
In the temple, hush of anticipation - will the guru
clad in gold brocade, enter with his entourage
like in the Land of Snows? What is it like to be
his student? What does he look for in a person?
The little hand clicks on the hour of seven.
The translator walks through the doorway,
all the students rise, attuned to the grand lama
hands in reverence clapped together. He enters,
clad in denim shirt and jeans. The sweeper
waves his hand. Please sit. Have seat.
Tonight I'm very pleased to see you here.
Annie Bien
Posted over on Adroitly Placed Word
No comments:
Post a Comment