A boulder, it is said,
is turned into sand
by patient action of water,

but then,
what happens
to the sand?

There has to be
a longer story.
It can’t end there.

I don’t care
that I don’t know
the story,

but I care
to learn it
and tell it.

I don’t care
that you don’t know
the story;

I care
that you are among those
who don’t care to know the story,

who are content
to see beaches
of vanished boulders

as a perfect ending
to a long tale
of this world,

who are content
to tolerate the myth
that there are beginnings and endings.

Before it’s fully light,
I step outside in shorts
with my flute in my hand.
I might play a note or two,
something quick before dawn,
a bit of whimsy on my part.

No shirt, no shoes, not nervous.
No one to see me, or at least
can’t tell if anyone sees me.
No one can hear me yet.

No one sees me standing here
round and full and pale
in the last darkness.
If I want to be noticed,
I have to do something
outrageous. 

Neighbors, can you see me?  
The fat, pale man,
out-of-place moon
on my porch?  What am I holding
in my hand — a flute of some kind, or
a gun — is that a problem I’m holding,
something for public concern?

Playing this flute
this early, knowing it will likely disturb
someone if I do, knowing if I do
and someone calls the cops
I will likely at most get a talking to
because I am a round pale man
and I get to be whimsical
and have it called “whimsy”
and I won’t likely get shot if I do —

here is the definition
I have never understood completely
until now,
the one beyond the dictionary
and the dry arguments 
and the earnest explanations:  Privilege

is the fact
that I get to hold a flute in dim light
and think about playing it
half naked
on a weekday
in a working class neighborhood
because I can, no other reason,
only half-concerned about
consequences, which for me
might involve being an asshole
but probably not a criminal
or a dead man.