Hair of the Dug Wedding Crashing

I’m back drunk again on
exquisite Punjabi whisky,
so smooth it washes out
last night’s sinning
like bathing in the Ganges

Around me are maybe thirty guys
dressed to the nines in turbans
of tumeric, lilac, royal red,
blue – and from amidst the
swell crests this Guru
and I think he’s maybe the happiest man alive.

In his ancient hands he’s cuddling a stack of 20s
and with the other he’s just firing these bills skywards
till they fall like confetti,

and I will not easily forget that man, nor the elation of the rain.

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