From Brookefield

He sits at the bus stop

That reads Brookefield,

An urban child with no history

Of its childhood....

Shoulders limp and head thrown back,

He listens to the noise

Of cars and passers-by

That dissolves yesterday's talks.

He flicks a finger, quietly

And turns it "mute".

He walks up to the road

That leads to more such roads.

He holds the road, the grey sky above it

And the city that stretches beyond

Between his fingers

Like a canvas of flowing colors

And moving images

That mean nothing.

He rips it apart.

He spreads a faint-blue canvas

And picks his paint-brush,

A lemon-yellow morning

And eternal sadness

Of many nights

That have not slept.

He paints "waiting"

Of the city-clock

That still ticks

In some forgotten days.

He tosses away the paintbrush,

Without a signature.

He walks away

And carries the canvas along.

(c)Ankur