A Holy Place
You may sit wherever you please. Here, a menu, there are the services. Fan blades begin to whirl above your table
Burnt oil wafts up and out the open wall over the colors of vendors in the market
Yes, you'd like water and fresh coffee. The market women note you are dining at a place they will never
The one with menus handed to the customer. Where the silverware matches, with tablecloths, glossy, new and red
And you utter thank you again and again. That is a fine choice. You sit proud and contented, the only one in the room
Some places are sacrosanct. Incense proves this, as does the pretty print of Shiva hovering above waters
And the restaurateur standing attentive in a Pepsi mirror
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