Walking Past a Trishaw
Zombified, globalised, rumbling nightlife
Surrounds him, insulted by the revving
Of passing motorbikes. Nevertheless,
The scrawny driver of the parked trishaw
Sprawls back over his own seats, seemingly
Asleep without a care in all the world.
Who am I to wake him up for a ride?
Right! Label at the back, and then I’m in
That daily momentary white three-ovalled
Collapsing cotton cockpit of one more
Singlet being flung over my head—that
Second of peace (if successful, first pull).
The routine judgement of tying laces:
Not too tight, nor too loose (and I still get
That wrong sometimes); the handed-down insurance
Of double knots. These fiddling rituals
Repeated thousands of times without thought.
Not much else today will be within such
Control, my zone of reasonable finesse.
A few old tricks live chalked up in my brain,
E.g. to avoid being caught out on
The colours of the spectrum, you invoke
Our old pal, Roy G. Biv. As to whether,
However, 12 midnight is a.m. or
p.m., that’s still devilishly difficult,
Though I haven’t given up completely.
Thirty days hath September, April, June …
Flossing is a relatively new skill,
Not to mention tact, holding one’s liquor
And pretending to be halfway normal.
But dealing with the female temperament
Remains out of reach for now. The spectrum
Of her emotions—flaring midnight, noon
And in-between—awes me, being one who
Gravitates to indigo. How on … Mars
Can I coax my chestnuts out of the fire?
The distant thunder shakes my window pane.
How do I begin to untie this knot?
The wind arrives and slams a door upstairs. Roy?