Flowers on concrete,
in concrete, in intangible quantities
in my heart- they fill my hollow
with colour like never before.
In situations that cut me open,
they run to get stitches
again and again:
loyalty that I wonder how I deserve.
And sometimes they lose me in crowds of
unknown faces at every turn
but in the break
between two rocks at a faraway beach,
away from reality, I’ll find them
blossoming between my broken heart.
I’m astounded by the oblivious.
How carefree and unapologetically pragmatic, they are-
The old uncle of the bus,
The squealing children,
The office-going folk,
The old women,
The young ones with earphones,
And the ticket collector of them all.
I enter, a stranger.
They stop and look and go on with their day.
The bus is a medium of travelling-
Just another vehicle with smelly armpits and lecherous stares;
Just another vehicle with dirt and a crowd.
Oh how they would long to have facilities of luxury-
For the children and the family, of course.
And then they would live their lives in the ‘big picture’.
But really how fortunate they are to live this life!
I get out of my car to take the bus
And they, the small specs of reality that make up the ‘big picture’,
Get out of the bus to buy a worthless car.