Poetry in Search of the Way

We stood in the long line
of centuries
waiting for handouts
from another who supposedly knew
supposedly was new
an endowed agent
of the government of the soul
and we poor citizens
or expats
wanting a ticket home
or a warm meal
we waited in line
for our allotted portion
from the King of the Empty Scepter.
Some would spend it on lottery tickets
called the Tax on Fools
justified, they said,
because one declutched
is a kind of fool.
Others wondered about becoming chosen.
They knew it could not be caused.
One cannot then begin.
Near the front of the line
a man stood still
staring at a dandelion
growing in a crack in the pavement.
“More projection!”
came a voice from the back of the line.
“It is not like that!
Nothing grows there!”
he said gruffly.
“I have seen people see,”
came another voice,
“and that is not it at all.”