Look what passes for a poem these days.
I lay them all in a line on the table: the clay cup
still warm from tea, the spoon, the cup of jaggery,
organic, they tell me, the sliver of sun through a gap
in the tiles, the silence scratching the back of my
throat like an afterthought.
In line, like a cryptic clue,
7 Across, Five letters,
the black and white squares around it unhelpful
in their emptiness.
We stared at them too, unyielding nights and days,
filling them with guesswork, mostly, your eyes
narrowing as you sometimes uncovered a
possibility, a hint, a question.
Saturday mornings, on the park bench, summer
parrots on mango trees pretend they know.
I pretend I understand.
A pencil passes back and forth, stirring the molasses
of quiet like a spoon, the sun rubbing the back of my
neck like an old habit.
Words come sometimes. Cold, in breathless lines.
Words come sometimes. Warm, shackled to squares.
7 Across, 5 letters.
Look what passes for a poet these days.
I am a poet from Bangalore, India and I post my work on thotpurge.wordpress.com