The laundered rags outside the
strung up like Tibetan prayer-flags.
Would anyone think so?
There are certain strands of likeness,
common threads, running between the
monks robes and the overalls, between
the monk and the mechanic:
both are always
humming to themselves,
working on the nuts and
bolts of transience.
Are there sufficient connections
to get us from here to the next place?
An old guy smoking outside
the Philosophy Department once said:
"We're like clotheslines, and every
experience we have in life is pegged to the line…"
I didn't understand, but
nodded like a toe toe in the wind.
"…the more years behind you
the more you have on the line,
the harder it all gets to understand."
Again, I nodded.
Later, these fragments connected:
Friday afternoon of Labour weekend,
I see a ute going down the road with a long
plank surrendering one piece of white cloth.
The need to string together words,
to tie these loose ends.