*****
oh, folks around there will say i made one mistake or another, or a whole bunch of them, depending upon their own personal perspectives.
from mine, though, i only made one. but it was a big one and, what is worse, one for which i never could apologize.
although i did find a way to make up for it. i think.
i’d carved myself out a little space in which to work, you see, in an antique office building surrounded by speed both vehicular and ingested (right downtown, right on the highway).
to be a poet, one must be able to meditate — not just for twenty minutes a day, but for long hours. in that situation i was already limited to nighttimes, which, as it turned out, were pretty regularly interrupted by the wanton top-volume ravings of a couple of local female homeless, who got their kicks interrupting not only my own very necessary meditations, but also the sleep of a whole building full of room renters just opposite.
but, of course, these being inhabitants of the town’s lowest (housed) financial rung, it was assumed that such goings on were exactly to their depraved and deadened tastes, one and all, and — wait for hours for intervention as one might, nothing was ever done about it.
i made the discovery that my own voice, pitched at just the right tone and volume, and focused in a sweet spot on the downward-louvering panes of window glass, would make that whole ancient building seem to resonate out a sepulchral voice to any listener on the sidewalk across the street beneath — exactly where those very women liked to hang out best.
once i tilted my head to focus on the sweet spot i couldn’t see the woman any more, but could generally hear her, getting mighty spooked and moving… away.
kept it up for a week or two. it was working great.
so great that i went into meditation one night around midnight, so deeply that i didn’t come up till around 4 a.m.
to sound on the street.
if you’ve ever operated generally sleep deprived, you’ll know at such times you’re not too quick on the uptake.
if you’ve ever been brought suddenly out of very deep meditation, you’ll know you’re not at your quickest then, either.
imagining it still to be somewhere around midnight and operating in a complete fog, i stumbled blindly to my accustomed station, and went into my act.
instead of diminishing vituperation, however, what came back to me was sudden, complete and lasting silence.
i peered out.
and felt like dying, right there, just from straight regret, remorse, and a broken heart.
it was nearly dawn. and i was yelling at someone who, though i’d never met directly, i dearly loved.
i’d even written a poem about how much i admired the fact that everyone just moved around this obviously disabled veteran and long time community member, sitting there on whatever bench he’d chosen, talking to the air.
… the last person in this world to whom i would ever have given a hard time, had I known what time it was, and that it was he.
too tired. too worn out. too worried. working too hard. working. do the work.
till a moment like that one.
there would be no way even to reach this person with an apology — my very approach would be too terrifying.
oh, I still did the work.
i did it on a government issue phone which put me to sleep before it made each and every one of the dozen connections required to produce each and every online post. did it when i had to play music for uncaring people on the street for two dollars to go connect to wi-fi at the coffeehouse.
but there’s a price.
i wept inside every time I thought about that man.
so i meditated some more — this time about him.
and here’s what i did about it.
every time i saw him in the distance, — across or down a street on which i was walking — i stopped. i turned toward him. and i gave him my very sweetest, most loving smile, with all my heart in it.
there was, of course, no immediate reaction even though, as we had never spoken together ourselves, he cannot have known that the voice coming from the antique building that early morning had been mine.
but the very last time i saw him — the last time i would ever see him — i was getting onto a bus which pulled away before he had come very near — i could have sworn —
— i could have sworn i saw him smile a little to himself, and quicken his step…
*****
Among us, poets are not paid. The poet/editor of this website, being physically disabled, lives at a fraction of her nation’s poverty level. Become a patron of the fine arts at: https://www.gofundme.com/are-you-a-patron-of-the-arts
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