Puja

wpid-puja1.jpg

And suddenly there is life;

Cross legged,
Bug eyed,
Oiled and massaged in the temple,

Groomed by a priest in,
Orange robes and,
Fat, fat

Ghee smeared on painted plywood,
Cheeks,

Frantic efforts to recall the past-times of,
Gods,
Frolicking on Earth,

Right next to the toilet,
Near the paddocks,
In this life.

Planes punch through the,
Sky at the nearby airport,

More planes than it seems,
India has a right to;

And the man across from me,
Is fingering a grain of rice in his pocket,

Sweetened at the alter by the,
Guru’s tears,

and
smuggled through the airport check,

just so he can swallow it now,
as his flight number is called.

Photo – LotusSculpture

-evocative short poetry-