Sitting in the rain
in the dark
with three good tires
I think of Confucius,
who, when arrested
by accident didn’t fuss,
rather sat in his cell for five days
playing lute until his story
untangled and he
was set free.
It is dry in the car,
and though the radio works,
I do not turn it on.
I never learned
to play lute,
but sense that perhaps
I am being played, what
with this long neck,
with my deep round back,
with my body still learning
to open.
The rain keeps
inconsistent time
on the windshield.
It is not deliberately
that the world
throws rocks
in the road.
Or is it?
The dark is only
the dark.
I feel a lessening
of the tension,
a tuning,
and who is it
that pulls
the strings.