Kulimela Mooed

That special incense from India,
the heady stuff,
floats out of the temple room,
clinging to the bright eyed
who wander into the sunshine,
memories sated with kirtan
and vicarious realizations.

An all day bhajan slowly pumps
up an inlaid harmonium
as the first of a million mrdanga
beats echo off the building fronts.

Conference rooms rustle to life.
Slide projectors hum into light
as laptops boot up
and chairs are slide into formations.

At long tables in open spaces
paper plates and cups
are taken from large cardboard boxes
and ladles and spoons are neatly arrayed.

The kitchen door opens
as the head cook takes his first breath
not burdened with a thousand details.
Inside, stainless steel containers rattle
together as eager servers
dance them full and towards the door.

Alone, at the dumpster,
the cowherd man throws plastic
bags of trash from a 20 year old Toyota
truck with a homemade wooden bed,
covering emptied produce boxes
and milk containers,
then leaves with a fresh roll of bags
to make his rounds again.

The occasional visitor to the barn,
wandering away from the festival,
finds it empty,
but no one notices.