Back in the day way before any
individual took to assuming their lifestyle,

intentional communities could provide you
a way in or out of your whatever.

Peggy and I drove to the B.F. Skinner one
in Virginia. Any hospitality there
was tents we brought ourselves, while plenty
ticks were provided. My orientation
to the members baffled any etiquette
I ever knew: in a settling rural, bucolic,
pedestrians walked past you, stared through you
like in subways. During a meet with minimal greet
visitors learned that couples — or was it just women? —
needed committee approval to conceive a child
but not to abort them.

In St. David, Arizona was a monastery of several sorts,
religious and lay, in houses and trailers.
It fell to me to hold up an altar candle 
so the celebrant could see the pages of prayers
after the power went out.

Down the road and over some knobs
from Gethsemani, Merton’s abbey, 
I prayed lauds in the dark
with the Families of St. Benedict.
A single mother there had such a sweet little kid,
Eddie. Sometimes as he went to and fro,
to and fro, more to and fro, he’d softly chant

      Take your time, it’s time to go home,
      take your time, it‘s time to go home.