Awaiting the Verdict

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From across the room

my eyeball

Eyeballed me on the 10 inch screen,

It’s tracery of veins

A network of canals, the orange-red sphere

the red planet

With a bright yellow centre.

 

Now, said the ophthalmologist,

 Pointing out the dark smudges across its surface

Let’s look for signs of cataracts

And macular degeneration.

She eyed my eyeball closely.

 

I sat forward and awaited the verdict.

 

* photo courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

You Wear Me Out

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You wear me out.

You really do.

With your constant tap, tap, tapping.

Can’t you give it a rest?

Try other keys?

What about the ‘Q’?

Or the ‘Z’ or the ‘T’?

Not a wear mark upon them.

And what about the ‘B’?

My poor little ‘A’ is totally erased.

And ‘E’ and ‘C’ are not far behind.

Consider the other keys.

Pay them some mind..

 

Talking to Strangers at Bus Stops

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I know my mother wouldn’t have approved

but my bus was late

I was idle

and this bloke on a bike

pulled in

“to give his bum a rest”,

a privilege he did not extend

to his mouth.

I learnt about his five year bouts

with ‘the Mike Tyson of cancers’,

Prostate

& this pugnacity encompassed drug pushers,

wife beaters, power utility scammers.

He wore black like Johnny Cash,

had two brassy skeleton rings

& he strutted around like a rooster.

Still he kept me amused till the bus

came along and took me away.

I waved as he sparred with the bus shelter.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Shame

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From a corner of my mind it came

a timid little mouse called Shame

no one suspected no one but I

yet I saw it clearly with its ruby eyes

 

looking all around , urging a retreat

its grey fur twitched , its tiny heart beat

you can’t be seen with her like that —

the thought pounced on me like a black cat

 

& so , it implored me to do as it bid

& though no one knew , to my shame I did

 

  • illustration from Wikimedia Commons

Love Song of the Garbage Truck

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Come to me, says the garbage truck to his love,

Waiting on the edge of the road for him,

You’re late, she says, looking at her watch.

I’ve been here since early morning.

Never mind, he says. It’ll be worth it

Grabbing her firmly around the waist,

Clutching her with his cold metallic hands,

You could have warmed them first, she says

Never mind the temperature, feel the grip,

he answers. Come into these loving arms,

Closer, closer,

Now. Doesn’t that feel good?

Wasn’t that worth the wait?

I bet you say that to all the bins, she says

As he gently places her back on the sidewalk.

See you next Thursday, he calls back.

Getting my Mojo Back

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I wish there were a place called Mojos

Where you could go to replenish

Your creative juices, to kick start that poem

Or story that won’t budge, where, in short,

You could go to get your mojo back

Should you lose it, and then I find there is!!!

 

It’s just around the corner, down the road a piece,

where ‘it’s  local and foreign, hard and soft,

obscure and obvious, friendly and furious’

& it’s open ‘seventeen days a week’! I just knew

There had to be a place like that, a place like ‘Cheers’

But where creatives go. I just hope they still run

flights there, and I can get in.