Pocket Buddha

"Write a poem in which you observe and describe a single object. This object is of your choosing; it can be pedestrian, everyday, meaningful, significant, poetic, prosaic, awful, cheerful, normal, almost invisible, imaginary, or whatever. Certainly it can be an art object or a love trophy or a piece of trash. But it is important to me that you look closely at one thing until it changes into something else. I am thinking of this as a practice in looking, staring, observing."  From Scott Challener

Pocket Buddha

He sits on coils of a snake demon,

its seven heads fanning out above him,

seeming threat, but representing protection.

He rests an open hand on  crisscrossed legs;

the other seems to grip a knee,

though these details  are nicked and muddled

and his corners are rounded,

from jostlings in bookbags and suitcases,

backs-of-drawers and under-beds,

buffeted by day-to-day epiphanies.

His eyes stare into the far distance,

but the dust gathers in the nooks

where his back meets snake.

You are a copy,

a knock off,

a mass-produced palm-sized Buddha,

emulating finer icons of enlightenment.

I carry you with me now and then,

tucked away with calendars and spiral notebooks.

I forget you’re there.

When I remember you,

take you out, cradle you in my open hand

(seeming protection, representing threat),

no bigger than a rabbit’s foot,

you offer no wisdom, no shelter nor sympathy,

only nicked and muddled memories

of a trip to the other side of the world.