In a Shop Called Josephine Miles

The front of the shop is ordinary

An ordinary shop in a strip mall in Orange Country

Inside, it is larger than expected

Shelves lining both walls seem to go on too far, too deeply

It is hard to describe the items on the shelves

Some are finely cut gemmed-components

Others are milled of metal

Not precious, but industrial, responsive to the bit

Each object is perfect in design and execution

But what they are, and what they are called

And what use they may have, eludes me

It is shop of objects formed for the sole purpose of existing

Not to be owned or even admired

But to seen for what they are, and what they are is the question

—

Daydreaming

Not intending to woods-walk today

I put on the wrong shoes,—city shoes, urban shoes,

And on the trail I feel every step,

And every stone beneath.

I become self-conscious; or, self-aware,

My attention on myself,

Not the visuals or aurals, I step out of myself

To observe myself, which is never a good thing.

In my self-assessment I fancy myself

Walking with Chingachgook, Natty Bumppo, Cora and Alice

Along the path I have worn through the woods.

I am in good company, determined

To keep pace and keep quiet.

The sun comes and goes from the clouds, rain

Comes and goes. The shoes of Cora 

And Alice are worse-suited than mine to the trail,

As are their skirts.

Hawkeye, La Longue Carabine, one and the same,

That is: Natty Bumppo, carries his rifle, Killdeer;

Chingachgook his bow and quiver; Cora and Alice

Hold high the hems of their skirts; I have my many-miled walking staff.

Chingachgook, one of the last two Mohicans

Also carries his heritage. Each carries their heritage:

Natty Bumppo's Protestantism; Cora: Negro and European;

Alice: Scottish; I: Semitic, Suburban, Rural;—

All we lack is a bar into which we might walk

And create a stir and a punchline.

The four walk with purpose, I have none.

Before we have covered many miles,

Before we have covered half a mile,

I wake from my revery; or, rather, I forget myself,

Became lost in my environment.

I returned to being me, not a character

In a daydream.

Now, in the sun, writing, I wonder at it,—

It seemed real,

I wonder at what I see now that I'm myself again,—

Clouds and vultures, young leaves on countless trees,

What I hear,—birdsong, honeybees, breeze through trees.

I wonder, is it real, more real than my daydream,

If so, why?