Wabi Sabi
by W. Wayne Lin

I can’t kick or scream like Bruce Lee.
Nor have a voice like Langston Hughes to read
“The Weary Blues.”

I lost the thrill to jump and cry:
“If I Can Dream,”
or bear a dire need to sing
“It Is Now or Never” like Presley.

Everyone is going their own way.
As though whoever left will solely face
the colossal enigma.

When I slowed down,
I was left behind and alone.
Alone to see the bloom of trampled grass.

When I’m tired, I sleep.
Hungry, I eat.
Sometimes steak,
paired with black dark Malbec.
Most of the time,
pizza or cheeseburger with raw onions
and some spinach.



 

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