I sit still for five minutes fixating on the tinny sound of a rusty ice cream van willing itself down the street. There are banana bombers and nutty buddies in their protective ice crusts waiting to be freed from the sad, humiliating parade. But I can not move. I am sitting zazen, watching my thoughts like clouds, pensive and hopeful that this time I can cast my eyes forty-five degrees down exacting a concentration toward the knot on the perfectly shiny cherrywood floor, like cutting the Hope Diamond when there is nothing left to do. I see faces in the boards now, and they are not urging me along, only trapped expessions presenting a possible future ripe with worry and clock watching and a wink. Perhaps my thoughts are not clouds. They are not rain and pollution, bunnies and fire engines– and the sun can break them apart at will. My thoughts are dandelions. When they are attacked with the swift stroke of possession, they spread like ashes over a field of brown grass and shoot toward the sky. My thoughts are free and unprotected. But on the floor, they tug at me, and I am tucking them away, at least until the ice cream is gone.