September. Monsoon season. The skies open
Their gates into the morning, like heels
Echoing in a great hall. The applause when the
Conductor returns onstage, the audience rising
From their seats. I have been petrified of saying
Too much, and saying too little. Some things run
Their mouths, a great exhalation down to the bones.
Before I go to bed, I make my ablutions to
The perfect tomorrow. I am hovering at the
Gallery entrance, having hoarded the free
Brochures from the information counter.
None of the portraits resemble familiar faces,
I might as well be an alien on the moon. The same
Old urge to make something better of myself.
Once, I walked through a garden of marble
Sculptures in a greenhouse, and they barely
Moved. I am taking copious notes on my life.
I am moulding fresh ribs from plaster.