The Poet in the Desert

The Poet wandered long through the desert of his discontent. He was nearly dying of thirst when he stumbled upon a trailer.

A toothless old man sat out front, making gentle time in a rocking chair. A mopey bloodhound lay at his feet. The dog rolled its eyes to look up at the approaching poet but didn’t bother to raise its head.

“Reckon you need some water,” the old man said, nodding his head toward a pump only a few feet away.

The Poet drank as much as he could without upsetting his flip-flopping stomach and turned back to his benefactor. “Thank you!” he said.

The old man nodded and smiled. “You know,” he said, “some folks think they can rig the game because they don’t know the game done rigged them!” He laughed long and loud.

The old man didn’t look a thing like his friend the Buddha, but the Poet knew it could be no other.

“Indeed!” replied the Poet. “An old friend of mine warned me that the best way to avoid the consequences of losing—or worse, winning!—was not to play at all.”

The old man’s eyes sparked with joy. “Sounds like he was a good friend,” the old man said.

“The best of the best,” the Poet replied. The bloodhound raised its head, panting in that way that dogs do that makes it seem they are smiling.

Then the old man and the dog were gone.

The pump and the trailer remained, leaving the Poet the means to rest for the night and resume his journey in the morning.

Were he not so well-hydrated and buoyant in spirit, the Poet might have written it off as a mirage.

After the sun set, the stars peeked out from behind the veil of night.

All was in its place, and he was on his proper path.

***** * *****

Rommentary:

I'd thought the Poet and Buddha had finally parted ways to pursue their specific duties, but it seems the Buddha has ways of checking up on his young friend. The story below leads to the previous entries, which do not necessarily need to be read as a series: