or the record store
(or Taco Bell),
I go without an agenda,
and let the muse, the hunger,
and the saintly stacks guide me.
Yesterday, I ended up with
a Sam Cooke record,
a copy of Written on the Body
by Jeanette Winterson,
(and a lunch of Chicken
Chalupa Supremes).
I am a penitent pilgrim,
not knowing what or where,
but seeking divine guidance
to find whatever it is
I am not looking for
but open to find.
I leave everything to destiny,
or to good luck,
or to the happy menu suggestion
of some wise Taco Bell teenager
who knows the secret order.
From the smell of lignin
to floating motes of dust,
the Epicurean pleasure
flaneur browsing evokes
is a form of rumination
and being open to divine intervention.