The holy man
is an equation:
reverence plus self-control
equals what?
purity? heaven?
It equals something,
As he sits on the
barstool to my right,
I happen to be
on an inhalation –
His robe smells like celery.
And a bit
like my grandmother’s
kitchen in the summer.
He nods to me,
a bow perhaps,
asks the bartender
for a gin and tonic.
In the mirror beyond the bar,
which reflects half-filled
bottles of rum, tequila, mescal,
our eyes meet.
I glance away,
knowing that I am
insufficient, lacking
every single part of the equation.
~ Cheryl Unruh