The Lull

I didn’t as much heed the clack clack
as hidden hands plucked
on the surface of silver pools
until startled, they stared up blank,
or the trotting drops on the car roof
suddenly stilled.

Taillights blinked back from where
the road, sunken, mulled
like an artist’s sky laid out to dry,
so above, the bereft tar hollow
swallowed the honks of waiting cars.
Air brooded and hung and almost
clung to my arms and neck
like a wet blouse.

Muck clouds kneaded, yielded
the day’s boding, then finally bilging;
no longer the distracted stutter
of my thoughts, but sputtering
in incoherent release, gloating-
waiting waiting.

Pelting, melting on the windscreen;
a liquid halo winnows on the bonnet, baiting-
waiting waiting.

 

 

FOOTNOTE: This is misleading. Rains in Mumbai are less poetic and more apocalyptic. I’m just going to go snuggle with a bag of chips.

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