We all are forced to wait,
either for a bus
on a rainy Tuesday morning
or death, for that matter,
in white satin bedsheets.
I guess some of us
have the fortune of
not having to wait for death,
or meet it when the bus that
is supposed to take us on
the rainy Tuesday morning
rides over us. You could
say that as the bus rides over
all the meaning and efforts
towards squeezing a meaning
out of life is overridden.
Is the meaning idle?
Is the journey subtle?
Is death no more serious
than shoe shine? One must,
I concluded, really zero into
practicality of actions.
Should I recycle on a planet
where trees serve nothing
more than scenery? Should I
get married on a planet
where males scoring, self-indulgently,
models as sex partners are
celebrated and renowned?
Should I leave a grave behind
where my coffin is the
most misunderstood airplane?
Should I be good?
Or, should I,
for that matter, play god?
All this g/babble on practicality
and all its preliminaries makes
me a hungry boy, and thankfully
the most practical thing in my life
melts gooeyness and tastiness into a bread
as it forces me to wait.
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