Puddle

In this poem I am the sidewalk puddle. A

long rain gave me this geometryless body.

A lamp that I reflect faintly has a pigeon

cooing madly. The wind runs through me

like fire through kerosene soaked jute. My

frail body shivers shy perimeters

in a storm. To my surprise I feel pleased.

What metaphor can be written for a sudden

joy that ought to be an offering of

discomfort. Then suddenly a lack of warmth.

Defeat on the 99th point of snakes and

ladders. Mens’ arrival to wipe off my framework.

How they finish me drop-by-drop. Makes me think

of the forest line near my childhood town. The way

it was puckered by a blind folded civilization. Until

all that is left of me: few orphan drops.