Stop Moving

I thought about the bearded man
Who sits on the sidewalk
Bathing himself
In imaginary basins.
Swaying and chanting
In dark, tattered clothes;
Are we better off than he,
Or has he learned
What so many of us
Never seek to learn?
I see a family
Dragging toward buses
Monstrous green cases
Stuffed with some objects
They figure they own.
They huff and strain
And lean into the effort.
And I’m walking behind them
And it’s so obvious to me
That their possessions
Possess them;
Their belief in ownership
A delusion they strain under
Like a boat moored
On a windy day;
Rightfully-owned burdens
Anchoring them in place,
Depriving them of direction,
When they should be yearning
To float free.
So are we better off
Than that bearded man,
Chattering alone
In words I don’t know?
Maybe he’s not in the misery
That we lament for him.
Maybe he’s enlightened
Instead of crazy,
A guru on his mountaintop,
Exchanging answers
In the Akasha,
While down here
Shuffling in my ignorance,
I hear nothing but the voices
Of the anchored masses,
And the echo of my own boots,
Clicking in the dust
Of a stone-floored arcade.