They are there
Under the stoop
With a brown paper bag
The familiar buzz
A mother's gift
Grandfather's watch
With a familiar tock
Rocking on high
With familiar cries
Smiling now in spite
of what's wrong
Or what's right.

I can see the wheel turning
The consciousness
Churning
There is nothing else here
No choice but what is
Down deep in his
Soul
Buried deep in his brain
Tis but a grain
Called the truth
Of our being