The Buddha

There was a laughing Buddha
carved in reddish brown,
about three feet tall.
Right on the staircase
landing, he so reminded me
of his amiable dad.

Like the rosewood furniture,
the Oriental carpet,
the cuckoo clock which chimed
on the hour, all those
floating shadows,
the searing loss.

He’d wore the sarong,
and raised his eyebrows,
so out of range, rapturous
once, not unimportant but
a legend of long ago
and still as a pond.

Prompt:

Day 21. I’m officially weary. Nine more days to the gate, and yay, I’ll be done with this kind of poeming pretty much! So Robert decided to have mercy on us and asked for an object poem. Too easy peasy? Only, why stop at one object when you could have a list? A small list or even a rapturously long one. Why? Because desire doesn’t cure itself. Just when you think you don’t need one more thing, you see and you need. It feels like a seizure, if you know what I mean. This wanting. It’s human nature is it not? Damn you, human nature!

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