Drinking Beer with a Buddhist

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Her eyes are lit and so am I,
and there’s talk
of being one
with everything,
which is how I ordered
the burger I’m anticipating
as she goes on pontificating
that all truths are equal except for one I’m holding
that they’re not.

I center myself,
press a hot wing to my lips (yummmm),
and meditate on the arch of her brow.

In my mind I’m inventing
a brand new religion:
a slice of Tibetan Skepticism
on a bed of Secular Catholicism
that comes with your choice of fifteen Sacraments
and an order of hand breaded Onion Rings.

A sacred glaze of fire sauce
coats my contemplative grin
as I watch the bubbles
detach from the foam.

She waits.
Of course, she waits.
She’s a Buddhist
for Heaven’s sake.
I pause and
show her I can wait, too.

“You know, Sarah,” I say, just as the zen breaks, “we should empty our minds, leave these thoughts far behind, and focus on our deep inhalations.”

I bow my lips and breathe,
as she shares all she believes,
and practice deep transcendental inebriation.

It seems I’m but a monk
who is just a wee bit drunk,
and she’s thinking me
under the table.

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