In vain he hoped the
creaking is the bed’s spring
The ticking, the three
hands of the clock in the corner standing
He damns the window glass
thin panes, silently screaming
Letting in the God-awful
resonance of traffic’s busy buzzing
Or is it a leftover headache
from days gone still brewing
Slight sweaty palm careens
lightly off a patch balding
A malaise common, a signal
of years swiftly moving
Not that old, he thinks,
gray matters fully awake now pulsing
One day short of a month,
a year less of six decades of living
Really? Of pandering to
EVERYONE, his own convictions notwithstanding
He caught a whiff of a
scent most wonderful so scintillating
To his left, there on the
console table, natural wood, shines unflinching
A cuppa, China white with
flowers red, yellow and bluish green, enticing
Making him forget, the
longest of moments from all that foreboding
Coffee? He wished it so;
black no sugar plain and simply
Neatly stacked were daily
newspapers he’d gave up reading
For so long, there were
simply there doing nothing but parroting
Headlines a day old,
spread earlier by fingers crafty so darn irritating
Making everything so open
so transparent, a world so galling
Now, if only we can switch
tech off for one day from one fine morning
He knew he needed to rise,
needed to cap a restless excuse of supposed sleeping
Too much bickering, too
many issues, much too big a stake that needs tending
A nation torn, its soul
scarred its community divided from years of peddling
Of so-called development, alas only the surface
begets substantial tinkering
By a perpetually pontificating
of a pathological polywacker practiced in the pocketing of pennies
Isn’t it?
A headache consuming
A cuppa brewing
A mind aching
And psyche creaking
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