I lived in the wilderness so long
I became a hermit,
like Thoreau, like Merton,
like the early desert fathers.
“You can become flame”
they taught us.
If you will listen,
if you can be silent.
After leaving New Mexico,
I was lost in city noises.
The three-day trip
across country
brought screeching tires
and howling sirens,
even the music on the radio
was too loud.

The receptionist in Tulsa
told us her life story
during our stay.
The travelers in the next room 
threw a raucous party.

The waitress in St. Louis
served us barbecue
laced with questions
about roadrunners,
Kokopelli, chili ristras,
she wanted us to hear
her worries, showed
us pictures of  her children.

Finally, home in Louisville,
I hope for quiet.
Instead I hear
countless motorcycle crashes,
drive by shootings,
convenience store robberies,
a never-ending loop of noisy news.

I miss the silence of open spaces,
the wisdom of the desert fathers.
I would give back half my days
if I could even once
touch God like they did.