Pity About the Sangha

You probably understand
You need the lot of you, or
At least a whole lot of you,

To live much of a lifespan.
Completely alone, you’ll die,
Most likely quickly, despite

Dumb personal fantasies
Of great self-sufficiency.
Can’t grill roadkill without roads,

Can’t unload the furs you tanned
Without that spring rendezvous.
Even monks live off of alms,

And most hermits draw pensions.
You’re obligately social,
Just a bit, if you’re human.

It still feels good, doesn’t it?
To find some panorama
Of an empty landscape, or

Simply an abandoned home,
Even just an empty room,
To settle in, look around

And grin, thinking, if I weren’t
Such a social animal
Who had to talk to others,

And to barter with others,
To work and live with others
Just to live, I could just live.