Meditation 72, or walk with Lilith (category uncertain)

[Not sure this one is finished, whatever that means.]

20 June 2020

It’s West Ham versus the Wolves in our living room. The stadium’s empty, cheering audible only to the television audience; players work in silence, or what passes for it in London Stadium, where we hear, or fail to hear, nothing. Here, a breeze comes in series through the rhapis palm, one frond a bright orange, the others dark green speckled with lighter green and brown. Seeds hang over the bottom lanai on octopus arms, if the octopus were green and its suckers small buttons. Earlier, I saw a white woman sit in the street in Tulsa, Oklahoma wearing a shirt that read “I can’t breathe.” She had a ticket to attend Trump's rally. Policemen dragged her to the sidewalk, put her hands in cuffs behind her back, pushed her gently into their cruiser. Then I took Lilith for her walk. The Buddha up the hill that’s guarded by pink flamingos holds a rotting papaya this morning in his lotus flower lap. Back on the street, Kwan Yin sits in a black mask that falls from her face. She pushes it up until they ask her name, and she says Sheila Buck.