Spring-cleaning
a drawer of socks,
I stumbled upon
an old assortment box.

Small and musty,
growing old and rusty,
protecting memories,
it was a faithful trustee.

Cleaners at home,
going corner to corner,
I had a moment of quiet,
to wonder and ponder.

I lost interest,
in my drawer of socks,
not wasting a moment,
I opened that box.

I found:

A morning conversation, clinging,
on a soft pillow feather,

a gentle night’s walk, gliding,
on a parched patch of grass,

warm sunlight, still shimmering,
on a forgotten eyelash,

an ethical glitch, unwilling to talk,
hiding under a broken coconut shell,

a promise, scribbled on a boarding pass,
with no name, number or what next,

a passionate night, reminding those earrings,
they should have gone home with her,

a goodbye kiss, drenched in love,
resting quietly with an old letter,

an idea, whose time had not come,
pencil sketched to a Handel’s concerto,

a lament, on a few orphaned coins,
so far away from their home land,

a yearning for writing, embracing a pen,
waiting for some deep black ink,

a stillborn poem, on a paper napkin,
hoping through years for a decent burial.

There I stopped.

Noticing I was a bit lost,
gazing into an old box,
the cleaners asked me,
“Anything useful
or should we
throw away that box?”

I wish I could tell them,
that there’s an old soul,
wrapped around a velvet
cloud, hidden in that box.

But instead, I replied,

“I know it looks like rubbish
but let’s now clean
that drawer of socks.
Leave this one alone please,
I am saving this old box.”

— Ani

Saturday 31st May 2014
Written: Home
Typed:  6th June 2014
Published: 13th June 2014