page 17 |
A playful laugh is my first response Five minutes later I am ill His crude words sicken me He lures me into his fantasy world Loves his feline dearly But does he know... His identity is not a secret to me. --Beenu Puri Huge drops of rain Falling in perfect diagonal sheets, Pelt the window, Disrupting his silence. His eyes move smoothly across the Pages of a Kerouac, Searching, searching, for the truth. Sets it down in resignation Beside an overturned Ginsberg. But he still has hunger pangs after His intellectual feast. No heads for his latest pathetic job-- Gets laid off again. No problem, though--it's happened before, "I'm getting good at it," he thinks. Carelessly stepping into large puddles, Glistening under the periodic lampposts, Pushing his curly, brown, Unkempt hair off his face. His wife used to tell him that he should cut it shorter. (cont'd on page 19) |
page 19 |
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