The man blinks, looks at my crumpled papers, in indecision,
then carefully enunciates, “Well, I’m no scholar,
but this stuff is – at least to me – as clear as mysticism!”
I note just a hint of blush red at his loosened collar.
“I’m not sure if he’s irreverent, but he seems full of cynicism.”
I look at him, then at my glass, and uncrumple a few dollars.

“I think this fellow needs a glass of wine as a metabolic catechism –
he does not believe in substance, but in shadows, which is atheism!”

The man stiffens, huffs, growls, “You saying I’ve got it all wrong?”
“Oh no,” I respond quickly, “you may well be half right –
it’s just that, in these matters, you need a script to sing along
and, without such scripture, we have nothing over which to fight.”
“Oh,” he mumbles, settling back, eyeing me somewhat overlong.
“Keep,” I shout, “this man requires a glassful of your liquid light!”

The barkeep tells the man, “Pay no mind, this poet’s a buffoon
who may know the words but has never even heard the tune!”

Jeweled sparkles indicate dawn sheds its gentle light within
where, in the tavern, finally, stragglers are leaving.
I stand at the Eastern window, where the sun is looking in,
and see the moon still full and high, somehow relieving
much vague distress, while a new day forces an old grin.
The Looking Glass reflects whatever we are receiving.

Meher and Mehera beam down on us from the portrait in this tavern
beside the looking glass refracting the poetic light of this dim lantern.