I tried my best, perhaps too hard, to draw the eye
inward and focus on the incremental eight
steps that Patanjali claims will leave me awed
and enlightened and in need of nothing else. Our
model was the turbaned guru up front, beneath the ceiling
fan, who Om-ed until hearts sank and curtains soared.

The skies were blue outside and the birds soared
to heights only possible in the enchanted tropics. Aye,
this foreigner sat on the temple floor sealing
the distance between steps one and eight
and hoping to be enlightened within the hour
or at least by this Himalayan scenery, be awed.

After a couple hours’ quiet introspection I found it odd
that the down cushion grazed my bottom like a sword
and the serpentine spine could not be coaxed, like our
guru’s, to stay straight, any more than the wandering eye
could be enticed to be still, or the mind be pinned on the eight
fold path, or the kundalini be cajoled to rise to the ceiling.

In the days that followed the sealing
of the merger, my friends thought it odd
that I drank a gallon of bourbon a day and ate
almost nothing; and when they found the liver sored
and cysted, they categorically insisted that I
take stock of my life and see the shrink for an hour.

I listened to my friends and honored our
pact to see the shrink and stare at the ceiling
lying back on his couch to probe into this I –
that’s crazy and driven but at the same time odd,
to consider that as the markets soared
and dipped, it could overlook what it ate.

I saw the doc, I watched what I ate
and exercised every day for an hour.
I lived every day on the edge of the sword
until the day that I cracked though the ceiling.
After delegating my tasks and assets, it’s odd
that an Indian travel brochure caught my eye.

I read on the eight limbs of yoga and that did the sealing –
within an hour I booked a flight ready to be awed
by the sword of Vedic wisdom and the mystery that is I.