Almost a Conversation

All around me are my ancestors.
All around me,
Wherever I go,
Wherever I live.
How can that be?
How do they travel?
How do they know?

Evelyn is here,
Barefoot,
Embodying good words as she moves upon the church floor boards
And out onto the street to follow me, even here.

Charles is here,
With his bookish grumble,
His camera-like gaze.
Capturing moments and crafting arguments,
He follows me to keep my thinking clear.

Marion is here,
With her holy worry,
Her anxious hands,
Her survivor’s heart,
The incense of her cigarettes
Follow me in every waft of smoke I breathe,
I breathe,
Inhaling her exhale.

Jack is here,
Maneuvering his city bus to find me,
Picking up wayfarers of every color,
Even those he judged without thinking.
Nevertheless, he bore them on along his way to meet me,
To stop at the place I had stopped to linger,
Waiting for him to arrive.

On that bus,
In that smokey drag,
Hidden amid those books,
Formed by that dance,
They keep seeking me,
Wondering if I’m willing to be found.
I’m already found
In the dance of my days,
The flight of my mind,
My breathing in pairs,
The way I open the doors
To allow others to enter my life,
To board this bus bound for where?
Bound for here,
Bound for here,
Filling up with passengers, but there’s always more room,
Always enough seats,
The windows are clear but frosted,
We are on our way,
Our breathing fogging up the glass
As one reads,
One smokes,
One drives,
And one,
In the midst of everything else,
Dances,
Dances,
Barefoot on the hallowed ground.