We cut banana leaf from our backyard and dress
the table with these fronds for a king.
Day is overcast; spirit drizzles with
the quiet acedia of another quarantined day.
No procession today, on this or any street;
only hearts can fling wide their gates.
Yet heart has always been best, been the most
fitting place to worship this king,
temples prone to moneychangers,
guards of honour prone to lie.
If heart must change, whatever the location,
let us begin with hearts only;
all else is stripped away.