Remembering Ram Dass

​it is hard to be
here now. the heart
wants to check out
of its personal crucifixions
let them keep piling
behind the mail-slot
until they barricade
the door and the only
cure is to burn down
the house. Ram Dass
died today, and I am
still a fool in a nation
of fools. Ram, I am
still waiting for some one
to walk me home.
I wish it were my
grandfather, in the
kindness of old age
looking like Mr. Magoo
in his floppy cotton
fisherman's hat.
I wish I were fit
to offer someone an
arm through these
long-icicled nights
but all I have worth
holding: the index
finger that taps
out these lines and
pokes through the fourth
wall of the heart.
Ram, like you, I do not
care if it is one
thousand gods
or one god.
putting the word
to lips is a step.
it's a hard path,
and the heart
is a tender organ.
remind me again
to be of some use,
to step out on the
road and walk
somewhere here.