The Sacred Genealogy of Mr. F
I knew a lady who lived on Park Avenue
wears a Cretaceous ancestor of mine suspended in amber
90 million years
but who’s counting—that guy
still watching, dumbly, from behind
that caramel curtain of rock-glass.
We trace our awakening from sentient nuisance
to Cosmic Observer to the great teacher
Ryōkan. It is told how some of us lived in his clothing
and rather than eviction he had different ideas
for us—took my great-great-great-great etc. grand-pops
and sunned them on the porch rail, a literal en-light-
en-ment and when those tiny minds were blown
open to the compassion and brilliance of the universe
he gently scooped those ones
back into his robe right by his heart so they could integrate
their discoveries and from that point to this
there has always been a strand of my kind
inclined to the mendicant orders.