Here he is, the thin man I know
he says he is of constant
Sorrow but I disagree he is here
Inside my head he buzzes something like the shadow Ma had to look for
When I saw it crawl up the stairs something like the sunlight
In your eyes when you have to squint
To see me dancing like I’m being hung
Upside down zero gravity trying to unhook my toes from
The mossy ceiling no
don’t look at my velcroed toenails that will make me flop
but then again the post man says he’ll be here soon so I sit
at the gate under the gate it is yellow this gate but then so am I so
maybe he cannot see me? They tell me that the beauty of the postoffice it is my duty
but I stole their stamp so they do not like me now, no
Here we are this is a green room. Why always this particular shade of pistachio?
My parents first car too was this anemic vomit but then here a girl danc
es in what is truly only a desultory manner
wriggling her hips and spinning on her toes waggling and my feet
now look like feet, curling at the edges because the girl I thought was a prostitute was just dressed to look like the sun.
here I am curled up on a window sill and I remember an apple being bartered for love, a vicarious love punctuated with winter sunshine and swirls of smoky hindi songs or am thinking of the mornings?
"unhone socha ki vahaan pe swarg jaise hoga"
