lenten journal: on nights like tonight

On nights like tonight
when I come home tired
and try to write, only
to have my little dog

begin bouncing her ball
on my feet, begging me
to choose her over words,
I think about monks

and those who cloister
themselves to meditate,
yes, and to write, to get
closer to God, seeing

isolation as the way to
make meaning of life.
I write in traffic, feeling
like the street performer

who juggled three things
chosen by the crowd –
a bowling ball, an apple,
and a working chain saw –

and kept them all in the air.

That’s contemplation --
and it’s a public act. (Now
I sound like I’m polarizing.)

Those cloistered clerics may
have had about as much
choice in the pace of life
as I, a juggler, myself,

who wishes for a couple
more hours of sleep,
and wonders how one
who unfamiliar with the

unabashed ambush of
canine affection finds
anything to say at all
on nights like tonight.

Peace,
Milton