What will it take today to jolt you from
The slumber of living on groggy autopilot?
A near miss, a close call, a double take?
The scent of people’s perfumes and,
At rare moments, of people themselves
As you huddle with them in the elevator?
The fact that being “only human”
Is really as much a confession as an alibi?
The sight of a teabag slowly suffused
With hot water like a sinking continent?
A hopeful past? A memorable future?
The sweet unplaced nostalgia in
The smell of a newly sharpened pencil?
The thought of your own life and the mortality
That sticks with it like wet pages?
Or, like Mr. Buechner, the surprise of
Finding yourself praying
But not knowing what you were asking?