Thursday morning encounter

Its a Thursday morning.
People are hurrying
like ants.
All in motion,
trying to get somewhere.
Probably their non-desirable nine to fives.
Heads buried in flimsy screens,
ears plugged.
Seeming focused.
Ignoring their kind.
March rain falls quietly.
Seated at last, I notice
a child of four
beside me.
With his mud brown skin,
Face pressed against the glass,
counting the drops on the window
or trees in interminable distance.
I can’t tell.
Occasionally breaking the silence
with loud abrupt noises;
unafraid of attention.
His curiosity grows and spreads
beyond the passing sceneries.
He’s so unlike human.
I can’t relate to him.
I sense a peculiar space between us.
Like he’s close enough for me to touch,
yet light years away.


Poetry, I realised
wasn’t something I could force.
There were times, it came to me
like a revelation.
but mostly I maundered,
in search of a word,
like a missing puzzle piece.
I knew there was a word.
That would fit and legitimise,
my expression.
I knew it existed,
somewhere in the hollows of my mind,
But the flow was obstructed,
ripples disrupted,
carried it further and further
away from me.