The rotting corpse of a dragonfly
Hangs over hung-headed commuters
Like a pterodactyl fossil in Fukui,
Forever aloft on calcified wings
For children to look up and wonder:
From what mysterious realm did you come?
But beneath the fossilized dragonfly,
No such wide-eyed adolescents pass by.
This Train Station of Natural History’s only patrons
Are closed-eyed, downtrodden business men:
Too busy catching up on sleep walking
To raise their gaze above the floor.
Slowly, the dragon hypnotically spins
Purveying the oppressed masses
Who solemnly shuffle through Samsara
To sell their lives by the hour
For the monetary illusion of profit.
It looks down from the spider’s noose that killed it
And laughs at those poor fools
Still running the race it already ran.
But beneath the devilish, spinning fly
The river of lost bodies abruptly parts
Where a mother vainly tugs a boy’s arm,
He raises his free hand in protest,
Points to the lace winged dragon,
And defiantly shouts, “Just Look,”
Desperately imploring those around him
To escape the hypnosis of Mara.
This little Buddha is almost in tears
At the extent of the older mortals’ folly.
For them it is nearly too late
To see the Wheel leading the Way
While the dragonfly continues to spin.
Poet's Corner 