Mantras that stay

Fugitive hours stare blankly from the coloured bindings of the books on the desk. Writing seems to be a task with no telos, a flight with no aim but the snatch of blue between the clouds. A little Buddha holds up his alms bowl and smiles and behind the cheap figurine I hear the real croaks of the handless woman on the corner, in her wheelchair, tirelessly chanting her mantra: Spare Change. She'll haunt us into the ground.