The vermilion poles pop up in pockets between
the office and skyscraper sheen.
A long wooden piece on top stretches out father
than the supporting boards under
as if they frame of a door
to something other.
A small white fox sits atop the left pole here
draped with a ring of sacred paper
to match the brother.
These little white creatures
once believed as messengers
for gods who would bring rice,
now are often forgotten
as we farm with mechanical device
to replace prayer with robotic care.
An efficient salaryman stops in rain
pausing a conversation on his phone
with his feet directed at the train.
With a solemn look, he taps the call away
and reaches into his pocket.
Nothing keeps the falling drops at bay
as he rings a bell-
so the kitsune will hear
he is there.
He tosses a coin which clatters
into a rough wood container.
After two claps, he bows his head
and murmurs into his hands.
Just behind him lies a road
with cars packed tight crawling home.
The cars honk loud
desperate to get out.
His suit gets soaked in minutes
as people run by on their business
shouting for taxis or
laughing with friends or
stumbling with early drinks or
singing a song.
Still yet the kitsune stand
to listen to this man.
Many years ago a priest
in white robes thought to appease
a rice god with his service.
He carves out a place with purpose
meant to last beyond trees or stone
protected by the leaders yet unknown.
And so be it war or strife or peace
the prayers spoken would ease
the worries of mortal souls
trapped in bankrolls.
With a final bow, he runs away
briefcase in hand,
leaving the shrine behind
caught between time.