Resin Buddha

Walking the concrete path from the mailbox home

to our 1,200 square foot paradise, fingers interlaced

clasped tightly together, like a shut locket

worn close to the heart

securing a cherished photograph, black and white.

 

His eyes gazing forward, crystalline and aqueous

like a sharp iceberg, drifting with intent

while my sight hoovers at the tops of my feet,

toes dancing to avoid clumsily slipping

on the crushed and fermenting oranges.

 

A man with frosty white hair steps out

onto his back porch

waving, smiling as widely as his

resin Buddha

belly rounded, content as the patio sage.

 

“I see you two often,

rosy checks propped up by the stilts

of your smiles as eyes meet

with shy passion,

lustrously.

 

There is no marked sheen symbolizing

forever, but I see forever in the way

you laugh

boisterously, like children

first discovering poop jokes.”

 

As his wife steps out, he takes her hand

lovingly into his own

like the last survivor of a shipwreck

grasping his life jacket–with gratitude,

reverence.

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