When I first started sitting
I'd get all comfy on my cushion
with the candle burning
and the incense coloring the air

and as I stared blankly
at the wall
not two feet from my head
the sound of the garage door
opening
would appear to distract me
over and over again

such that
the thought arose
as to how wonderful
it'd be
to be a monk
in solitude
and quiet
at my monastery

Now it's different
this cushion
that damn door
these words
all are monastery
all is practice
just so

Easier said than done
the thought arises
as I continue to slowly
boil
at the demands
others seek to place
upon my heart
with some success
apparently weighing it down
with anger and craving

breathing
letting go
that inner buddha
suggests
perhaps this is monastery, too?