To be one of the geese.
Unhindered and not-suffering by the Lake.
Souls go by on boat or foot.
Blue squares of water, blue days overtaking a year.
People clink glasses and talk of their invented selves.
Their selves living lives of ease and beauty and winning.
A real connection is often a bench full of quiet,
The goose eyeing the sandwich lazily
Waiting for you to toss a piece of it.
When will I learn to really listen?
To them, it’s no matter if you do.
It’s no matter if you don’t.