Sitting in this old restaurant,
Ceiling fan spinning slowly,
Barely gets me out of this rut,
Brings to mind things that are almost holy.
Humid air hanging heavy,
Summer air in winter must be,
The month is December really,
Can’t get rid of this big belly.
What beasts thrive in this climate setting,
Must be giant lizards or big bears,
Things far from being holy,
Imagination running wild for me only.
Holy fire consuming this napkin holder,
Doesn’t seem to burn it all,
Voices inside screaming louder,
Just the tapping of fingers on the hollow wall.
To what place will it open,
Heat in winter leaves no clue,
A far flung church or mountain abode,
Any place where the wind blew.