On my way to home, there are moments when I casually sip
a dark sooty coffee, ashen black to remove the stubborn
charcoal stains from my green heart, legacy of a sheltered
sub-urban life, I meander through the curvy narrow lanes,
stretching wide from top like sagging bosoms but contained
through metallic wired frilled brassieres and net fences.
Streets can run crazy wild too, trees must be primed, petals
must be counted appearances have always mattered.
Holding the erect blank cup, for it has no colors of flags
no slender waited figures of pouted mythical women
I measure my hours with careless sips of coffee
scratching my head as to which way to turn, as I am
bad in directions, I knock on several dilapidated
neatly kept homes, gosh they all look same, even the
garbage outside bear uncanny resemblances, I try to
wait outside several cobbled streets with long
Victorian names King George Edward Philemon
second or third or may be fourth, scratching my head,
I wonder whether to turn left or right, go straight
or turn back, I see random common faces trudging along
taking heavy steps who have similar frugal existences,
mundane chores, ordinary lives not literary enough
to pen in Queen’s English, as I wait for my turn on
King Henry Pokemon fourth or fifth bus stand
I deliberately miss my Peter-Pan as from the corner
of my eye through hazy blurred glasses, a spectacle
extraordinaire out of a rising chemical smoke of
a burning cheap plastic, I catch a site so rare, a dainty
disheveled vision of a homeless man ogling at me through
his piercing eyes, winking at me, In a single moment we
have an understanding of seven births and deaths we
both don’t make any effort to find our homes.
