Garbage Can
An eager hand exploresAn eager stomach drives,
Fingers sift easily and quickly
An assortment of our waste.
A broken bottle of gin,
A half smoked cigarette,
A packet of potato chips,
some moist some crumbled.
Doubtful eyes inspect
Nose confirms the odor of stale
Tongue detects the rancid
and yet it must be picked.
He is not so unwise
he knows stale has a degree,
He can still eat those chips
they are not as stale as him.
A mouth as eager as hand
crunches the moist chips
Taste, sight and smell forgotten
hunger is the strongest sense.
The whispering sound
or the crumple of ironed seam,
He looks up at the sound
a camera looks at him.
A satisfied click of shutter
The bent knee stands up.
The picture has been taken
And a mouth eats on.
He puts the camera in the cover
He straightens his tie to work
A brief yet welcome distraction.
A good photo and a good story.
The garbage can shudders
out of wind, out of cold
or out of tired shoulders
of an exploring eager hand.
posted by Abhishek @ 9:16 PM
3 Comments:
It seems going away on exchange induces boredon which spurs people on to write blogs
Good to see you writing again. Keep the words coming...
Clearly, your words represent your perspective on the anguish that hides itself within the spiritual cosmos.
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