jothi 7907 i see and 3 other poems

on october 21st at around 1730,
a bulldozer excavates dirt. and
a migrating flock of herons-
maybe-
flock around it.

a dusty plywood ramp,
propped against a four-foot
yellow wall exclaims:
ambuja cement!

jothi 7907;
by the crook of my left elbow.
hamid’s wife’s birthday or
auto manufacturer and license plate?

it’s october and the city smells…
sweet. of the flowers i can’t ever remember,
even though mom and i
take walks around here.

my tshirt sticks to my skin with sweat.
soles of my feet feel grimy:
with dirt and sand.
but my nose takes a short sniff;

Recognises the smell —
exhales quick!
ready to remember the smell.
afflicted with etiquette of taste
i take three short inhales.

mom is a little out of breath,
and she sings a little song.
sighing, I begin to ask her:
what are these flowers called again?

a man stood in the most
well understood stance.
Waiting – maybe.
for someone? on someone?

right palm perched
on his right hip.
left leg out.
heel of his left foot pointed —
perpendicular to the arc of his right.

all knees locked.
his left hand held a phone.

hello hello

his neck within a brace, gaze skyward,
‘skin coloured,’ he’d call it.

his flesh, stretching to fill.
spilling over the seams.
I saw him ten minutes ago.
maybe he’s left.

He picked off the green moss from the wet brick,
Slowly; carefully enjoying the simple texture.
He remembered his yellow home with the
Red bricks and red gate and red flowers.

Les gars vous devez me croire.

Under the underpass lies a femur.
No moss to grip it tightly, like,
Envelop it tightly, like, a quadricep could.
You shake your head, mon complice.
You mark: the peeling skin off your palm,
You wonder at its simple easy texture.
You get a fingernail under a bit of it and
Scratch.

Gently at first, then you dig deeper and you;
Remember your red hat your red scarf your
Green moss outside your red gate. And you;
Wonder whether the sternum handles pressure better.

You chuckle, look away, smirk, and see red,
You descend, you con. You lie down on the
Underpass and welcome: the red truck and the red car and the red moss to crawl over you.
It’s not that hard to hear the hills chuckle.

The smell of burning rubber wakes you.
It reminds you of your lunch, the stew:
Generously garnished with the green
Of the moss, and you remember something:
C’est quelque chose que vous ne pouvez pas placer…

Hypocrite, semblable. It strikes you and you see red.

Bride of time,
Death, stood at the foot of my coffin,
Unloved and unmoved,
A study in shades of envy.

A ragged tune drifted through the door
Pushed ajar, by the hands of a clock.
Carefree, it twirled through the air upon
A breeze so stubborn it refused to lock the door behind it.

I shifted on my deathbed and pulled the covers
Over my aching, splitting head.
The floorboards creaked echoing my
Disapproval of the unwelcome visitor.

Suddenly!

(Belaying me was a cinch,
I dangled over a precipice.
Then I felt the gentlest pinch,
Perhaps a hydraulic hiss.)

A gentle tug and I am no more.