The nebulous cap on his head, in a rainy late evening
when it’s already dark and when the world is in the stages of life,
walks down the stone stairs; a few dogs prowl, a piazza waits empty,
the smell of bread where it wafts in the morning, now only a few reeled bottles
and a sense of destiny. It’s funny how the inevitable winds up into everything,
like the moments attendant and watching; we call it fate, we call it will.
The river is but a short mile away; there he can smoke quietly and watch oneself
in quiet reflection of the red glimmer of hope- whether live or stillborn, or pink
like a squealing baby, ready to dance tarantulas and fling the best cloud on earth;
The moon’s not yet quite there, and the buildings are hideous,
at most a woman on the corner, or a student lost in sartre and making the world’s riddles,
and there will be a step to sit, a joy to remember; draw upon the painting,
there will be a canvas taut from one end to another: a life lived and to come, so many
unlived instants, so many happinesses. Almost a grasshopper.

Photograph Courtesy: Sharbeen Sarash © All Rights Reserved