• nothing matters

    by  • August 12, 2019 • friends, grace, patience, poetry • 0 Comments

    nothing matters

    from my window seat I can see a bench
    concrete sides holding wooden slats
    under the tree that has taken a century
    to grow beyond the telephone pole

    from my window seat I can see a bench
    concrete sides holding wooden slats
    under the tree that has taken a century
    to grow beyond the telephone pole

    meet me there

    and don’t bring a thing with you
    perhaps a cup of coffee, or a pup
    leave anything that beeps or vibrates
    and we will linger with a sense of purpose

    as though nothing matters
    (as in we have nothing to prove other)

    we will do nothing the way Martha did
    –you say that’s how I always talk about her
    because I’m with Mary in the kitchen–
    I am working to learn that nothing matters

    to understand what I mean you have to be here
    on the bench next to me listening to the tone
    of my voice, paying attention the way
    Mary could not with her tray of hors d’oeuvres

    nothing matters so much that we must do
    nothing other than find ways to each other
    so meet me on the bench–and bring snacks
    all this talk about food has made me hungry

    Peace,
    Milton

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