atop a Tibetan mountain
peaking through
a perfect cloud
i will take high tea
with the dalai lama
the platters
pots
and cups
brought to us
upon the backs
of meticulously trained
boston terriers
billy goats
and bull frogs
who
when given honey
wag away happily
his holiness will tell me a bad joke
as he pours
“Why is the Christian heaven paved with gold, but covered in newspaper?
Angel poop.”
to which i counter
“How do you make the universe laugh?
Tell it your plans…”
we giggle into our tea cups