Some temples are cluttered.
Everywhere there are
or just sitting around
The congregation ride luggage carts
in the dead of night,
sing drunkenly, slam doors,
or watch HBO with the volume way up,
That was a hotel in Muncie Indiana.
A temple I shared with a rumba dancing Shiva
and a bottle of Jim Beam
but the vibe was the same.
When I finally nod off, I dream of wearing
in an elevator
the Kama Sutra.
One level up,
the Tallahassee chapter of the honorable order of Shriners,
surrounds me with their juiced-up joie de vivre.
I rise with them to the seventh floor
where at last I find
my omnipresent self.