I Know Why The...
Caged Candle Sings.
Or at least,
I believe I can infer as much.
I'm in a hip D.C. restaurant
for a pre-concert meal.
A kind of establishment
I wouldn't have known
even existed without my
much cooler dining companion.
And after a rhubarb elixir
I pardon myself to use the loo.
I enter the large single room
and let out an unguarded cackle.
A squawk really, upon
encountering this strange tableau:
A lit candle, flickering, and
which I take to be quite expensive.
It's triple pad-locked
into a black metal birdcage,
which is in turn placed
inside an open wooden box,
atop a golden and glass table,
in a locked bathroom
in the heart of D.C.
A Russian doll of intrigue.
The metaphors and the jokes,
they flood my thoughts,
they write themselves.
My brain sputters,
flailing to determine
in which path to travel.
I do my best to suppress
defiling the sacred memory of
Presidential Medal of Freedom
honoree, Maya Angelou.
(I've failed you;
I'm deeply sorry, Ms. Maya).
Once my trickster mind quiets
I begin my detective work.
In what world, truly,
did it become necessary
to clamp down
three Master padlocks
onto this birdcage
in which a clearly precious item
has been placed
yet lit ablaze, consumed?
Alas, my germaphobe self
had left my phone at the table.
I'd lost my window to snap
plausibly discreet evidence
of this perplexing scene.
Back at the table,
I beseech my guest
to visit the lav on my behalf,
equipped with their phone
to gather proof of this.
They comply, with glee.
While they're off capturing
portraits of potty prisoners,
I unpack the phenomenal sight.
(Auntie forgive me.)
Reunited with my phone
I take to Goo-Gul.
I learn that the candle is
from La Labo, street value $90
— plus tax and shipping.
So clearly, this joint
has had more than one
inebriated patron
try to run off with a burning idol.
And still further, Management
has proclaimed the candle
and its honestly alluring scent
to be worth the hassle.
Figure it out!
I can imagine the owner barking
to their front of house.
And so here we are,
basked in luxury
surrounded by security.
Being asked to both relax
and feel fabulous —
while being told we're also
surveilled and untrustworthy.
And yet.
Outside the powder room
in a dark corridor are
vertical stacks of spent
La Labo Verveine 32s jars.
What the bougie wax website
calls "glass vessels"
are one a top another,
skyscraping to the ceiling.
I'm in an elephant graveyard
but one for couture candles.
They are unguarded,
discarded. They telegraph:
You can't have me at my best
but you can take me at my worst.
Now that,
I take it,
is a Flex.
I know what the
Caged Candle Sings:
a flashy temptation
to the self-appointed elite
who are being served
and observed
by staff
who know this tune
all too well.
