The Secret Life of Patanjali

When he spoke, words dribbled down his chin
like soup from an idiot's mouth.
He got a phone call once,
but it was the wrong number.
Heaven only knows how much he's suffered.
The thought of tomorrow morning's cornflakes
fills him with fear.
He is grieved by the sound of running water.
As a boy, he was bewildered by his mother's stockings,
his father's beard.
He remembers his 5th grade math teacher
and hopes she's still a virgin.
Pity the man who can't enjoy the fruits of his labor.
Dead grandmothers in rocking chairs
litter the ceiling.
Fuzzy darkness coagulates
in the corners of the room.
The neighbors remain behind their windowshades
out of sheer cowardice,
seeking redemption in coffee grinds
and egg shells.
Win or lose, it makes no difference.
The leftover fortune cookies
and packets of soy sauce form a sigil;
tomorrow he'll eat them.
With reverence, he places his hands
over the flames.

David W. Aronson
June 1999