From pigeons bred with love

That flied to unsung distances

With ‘real’ conversation tied to

Their salmon-colored feet

To prudent qasid;

The desirable messengers who

Knocked the door like

Cold spray of monsoon in

Harsh summers;

We now live in the age of

Fantastic electronic messages

Rapid, safe, brilliant.

Poetic. Unpoetic

Unable to pen out poetry

I slept to dream

Of rain and roses.

I dreamt.

I had been relocated

To another work space

The new work station has

Two glaringly yellow spotlights

On my head

Causing a cluster headache

And I write an application

To my Boss

For switching them off.

Poetic. Unpoetic.

I sit by my window

Devouring low-carb pasta

And I see my neighbor’s window

Through the wide opening

Of the dark indigo jeans

Soaking in my balcony

I see a middle-aged couple

The wife preparing supper

And the husband doing dishes

I see the ballet of routine

While slurping the last sheet

Of my food.

Poetic. Unpoetic. Poetic.