Those Buddhas of Suburbia (Poetry)

Yesterday
I saw a young woman walking round
our local branch of a well-known
high street store
hugging a Buddha to her
like a baby
his face buried in her breast.

I’ve noticed
the shop does quite a trade
in Buddhas — some wood
some resin, others painted plaster
and various sizes, poses, shapes
to fit most interpretations
and popular aesthetic tastes.

She had chosen this one
to take home — adopt
and share with him her living space
attracted, maybe, by some whimsical belief
his presence there might lend
a touch of eastern grace —
some borrowed sense of spirit
in a godless zone.

I admit
that over time I’ve collected
half a dozen different Buddhas
of my own.