How Did I Get Here?

Let’s not answer that question.
We are in the immediate café,
quieter than any library.
An unsaid agreement

of silence among the lonely.
The monsoon looking on,
banging on the glass windows
like an abandoned dog. Futile

to compete with its noise. So we pay
attention only to the coffee on our table
the smell of alimuom in a distant continent.
Oh, only we know of the land’s secret

breathing after the rain; even
their undiscovered mountains throb.
I must be one of many writers visiting
this place now, this origin of coffee; for it is warm

here, and public. Today is Tuesday
and the world outside is undressing
slowly with every drop of rain;
and we the willing

virgins, the way we keep
to our notebooks—to our faith
in weather and change.
Look, God is taking time

and doing nothing with it,
stirring in his coffee cup
another East Pacific wind,
another question of His: asking

us to sit down; strike
the ground of our hearts again;
dig ourselves further
into truer selves.

6 thoughts on “How Did I Get Here?

    1. thank you! but why is this coming from the author of that wonderful peter gabriel story and that deserves a quiet night poem? you already know how!


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