Forgetting Dharamsala

Under them heaps of grey
           our woozy post-dahl and roti          
            adrenals chase wakefulness
           in the Starbucks knockoff
                our white comfort hour
                on a distant free duty port.

           Some song fellow
           some lyrics and rhythm
           some second verse.

Tea plantation gone from eye
                                               to cup.

Pines and ravens and shitting cows
           ga-ta ga-te on the flag wrapt mountain
           monkey mothers pa-ra-ga-te
                         with their drooping
                                               pink teats.

           Mantra spinners clanging
           round the sam-ga-te circuit.

           Stumbled up by cane propped
                          wheezing elders
                          sweating below hatband
                          fingering swinging sparkle
                          of another mantra circuit.

If I had clarity, I could seek perspective
            but only the lapses of sleep starve
                          stalk me
                          and aversion to the
                          dough boy sneezing over there.
                          as the music cracks
                                               stutters
                                               gravels.
                           the angry wails of
                                                that flopping child.

                          (Now he toddles with mom
                                                grazing small fingers
                                                along the white wall tiles.)

The bells and prayers and honking streets
                          are still there, the
                          smooth gliding prostration beads
                          before Lokeshvara of
                                                the countless seeing palms.
                          it's all still there, parading
                                                and hawking
                                                triangular Buddha daggers
                                                in scented roadside stalls
                                                before the lumbering clusters
                                                of glittering lowland tourists.

Dharamsala paints its dream anew this day
                          and for each foreseeable future.