The route from home to BART has pleasant views,
a gentle downward slope, infrequent stops –
it’s sustenance for senses, walking news,
but Alcatraz to Woolsey has no shops.
Pedestrians like me, who people-spy,
will find a house attractive but prefer
to witness interactions, like a fly
upon a wall – they serve as fancy’s spur.

So most the way’s a feast for eyes and ears,
where merchants open doors and people flock
to purchase goods and gossip – all but here –
the stretch I call the meditation block.
For seven minutes now I’ll peer inside:
my aim an empty mind and balanced stride.