Beggar’s Bowl

Evan Gill Smith

Repetition is a method
of survival. It’s not until
3pm that I realize each day
is a day. Then come waves of
regret. I go for walks to shake my
malaise but I can’t identify any birds or
trees. I don’t know how to tend that garden
I pass by. Back home, I chop too much garlic—
see, I don’t really know how to cook. And snow falls
until it fills a bowl I left on the side of a bridge. That was
supposed to be my beggar’s bowl, a concept I was once fascinated
with (like many before). I was supposed to wander from town to town
with nothing but that bowl. I was supposed to become a different person.