in my rush to follow jesus
i have forgotten to send postcards
to buddha, which he likes.
mona lisa master.
his serene smile. his amused eyes.
prayer on his still lips.
unlike the letters I write jesus
the postcards are best left blank
except for the address:
jack pine tree
end of long dusty road
far up the mountain
or landscapes or miniature golf
courses with odd themes are
in upstate new york, years ago,
i saw a small buddha statute
observing the ninth hole of a
can come at a stroke...
under the bright lights that click on
at sunset, no doubt jesus could beat
the final “free game” hole
while buddha would keep an honest score.
after, on the long drive home,
they would smoke cigarettes,
listen to Elvis
on far away AM stations,
and sing along:
“...Please don’t ask me what’s on my mind
i’m a little mixed up, but i’m feelin’ fine...”