JOY FOR BEING NAMED JOHN

Perhaps the ripples that arc out,
from the cushioned wicker chair now empty just outside the door,
past the flag at half-mast, deservedly say the mules in the Burmese jungle,
past the new faces of a neighborhood he always welcomed,
black or white, gay or straight, friends truly, one and all,
down the hill past the street named for his famous friend,
past the high school where all his marks were made on the
inside of people,
perhaps these ripples are only strong enough
to rock the boat, for only a moment,
of his new friend (if he's lucky) with only half his life's experience,
half his openness, his trust, his joy and optimism,
half his satisfaction for a life well-lived,
half his devotion to that which keeps us all sane and binds us,
all the same,
to walk the path from street to stoop,
and back again,
over and over, until the job is done,
the race run and the ladder climbed all the way to its top rung.

Perhaps this is how it should be for those weak(er) of heart
like me;
to forget all too soon and to return to those mundane things,
those silly dissatisfactions with really lovely satisfactions;
those petty jealousies of what seem, darkly, like too careful blessings
bestowed far away and unjustly so,
those careful gestures showing tender mercies, like a quick glance at cards,
only frozen by politeness and by the all-too acute awareness of each passing second
and not of the grand arcs of time suggested
by the ripples that arc out from a wicker chair, now empty,
just outside the door.

Right now,
in this moment,
I will try for more.
If only because my name too is John.