salt stings soldiered eyes streaming
i am not crying —
just releasing a weekend of wine and Netflix,
a relapse i can't admit
when people ask what I did last weekend.
Muscles burning in the agony,
their capability
long squandered,
by lazy nights and wine.
Monkey mind zombied to flashes of LED light.
Docile strides to somewhere I have to be.
oh TV, you are so tempting to a binger like me.
I think about the last episode
when I should think about the road,
leading to my forgotten sanctuary,
where limbs stretch, teachers chant krishna
and rub students with essential oils.
But as I listen to the
sitar in shavasana,
interrupted
by iPhone rings,
teacher grasps the money
from the donation box greedily.
I feel slightly annoyed,
but mostly pity —
three students
thirty five dollars
for an hour.
But I think
this is what happens when
yoga becomes a
commodity.
Like TV — a fix,
not a spiritual experience.
So we'll pay the minimum,
or stream it illegally.