On 7th street
North of the school
By the pharmacy
And takeout Chinese
A tar-paved
vacant corner lot
Fenced-in 
By wired diamonds
An ordinary garden shed
White doors and steeple roof
Is enlightenment’s enclosure.

The working priest
Deftly unlocks
Handyman’s doors
Rings the bell,
Lights incense,
Awakens
The sleeping idol.

Does the Buddha know me?

Just outside the lot
Prostrated 
Chicken bones 
On mottled concrete
A flurry of rumpled 
Plastic bags
Tiny pyres 
Of cigarette butts
Dried dog shit 
Under a sickly tree

I am no less
Than these 
Blessed seekers.

I hope