Temple

I will not go to Zen temple today.
I cannot face the sitting and the pain
of cramping knees and thighs. The silent room
grows unbearable from the passing trains,
and cars, whose drivers have places to go.
The bell sounds resounds, and each person then tries
to be the clevr’st so that Roshi knows,
that they alone are like the Golden Child.
They tumble over dead, or shout answers
to unsolvable koans they’ve been giv’n.
Those riddles will indeed be their demise.
But alas, I should go down today,
to settle down at least, to make myself
right with the world. To fully breathe at last:
this alone should be my intention.
How can it be, that good men do grow bored,
with touching bits of emptiness they find?