Knowing

Dipped out

Horizontal 

The flour goes every which way

When I’m not there

What’s the blessing

And what’s the curse of being
The one
Who makes the wheels turn
And knows the whereabouts
Of the small sacred objects
Being at the center
Of the story of essentialness 
Then what would that person do
When wandering the periphery?
Is that a lonely freedom 
of not being needed?

Is that a mellow dose,
Sun square on the bed
And the time to watch it move?