Ping Yi

Lethe

Purple yoga mat rolled up, on top

of a urinal, resting against grab bars;

on a pavement its owner stops short,

hand on lamp post, rummaging

through the drawers and pockets

of their mind. The new problem diverts

life’s torrent of chores, flushing away

a river of troubles; the eyes see red

and do not see– where the hells did I lose it?

I know where I was. I know this. I knew.

Coffee Robusta wafts over cobbles damp,

and leaves poplar; morning light tangoes

with vented steam, catching wisps of just now,

glints of an hour ago, footsteps from dawn.

The day’s walkers surge past, flow around them,

thinning the fury, washing away sense

and self, leaving only the bliss of time.

Purple mat watches the world come and go:

a thousand different faces.