Dissonance In Daylight
Sometimes, things are too much
A bike’s broken horn
The pure black of a mother’s ponytail
The freshness of a fruit never tasted before
A broken comb with its white plastic nibs bent like a thistle
An empty bus is going nowhere
And then.
A girl, nay, a young lady, very well dressed in a green and pink Punjabi suit squatting
Far too low as though to make prasad with the earth on a busy roadside,
Nay, a highway next to a metal footbridge that I dance down
To see her unembarrassed
Brown thigh bore to the world
And her face slightly turned, looking into nothingness
Is she unwell, her mind gone?
Her parents? Does she need help? Is this normal for her? Is she poor? Why is she so well dressed?
All I can do is look away and then think with shame why should I dance down a staircase
With such naïvety, not knowing it leads to her bathroom?
The little string that ties her top hangs so low with a golden bell to almost touch that which is
So filthy and degrading.
It is a knell summoning me to an ATM and then lunch.
My appetite is gone.
So has she.
It should be raining, but the clouds are so stubborn.
Or apathetic to the mess below.