Tuesday, June 7, 2016

The girl on the bench*

Every day, when the dusk
Would descend at the park,
The girl would there come
And sitting at one corner,
Over a phone, would just talk,

With whom did she shared
So many details of life,
No body ever that dared
To her ask,
But at the dusk,
She would come, the girl,
And would sit on the bench
And talk with one hand her hair she curled,

With whom did she talk,
No body really that cared,
But with that unknown
She her details of life shared,

What did her father her tell
Which shopping mall
Was having the rock bottom sale,
She would talk, till twilight did fall,

She would talk,
About the town,
Which circus had brought
A parakeet and a clown,

Which season last
She went to an eatery
What foods fast
There they served just,

Which palanquin ,
(Perhaps imagined, )
Had last month been
On a distant street seen,

Who rode that,
(Perhaps a Prince,)
She talked all over
Phone , dusk fell since,

Which dress fashionable
Her cousin sister bought
What gown silky from a souk,
She, a whole wedding season thought,

Which travel to a station
Brought to her scenes
Of beautiful clouds
Coming to her, floating,

Which sea side resort
Had all the crabs and prawns
On her platter served
Tasty and hot,

Which cuisine last Wednesday
She learnt from which show
And how she tried to prepare the same
Making the grilled chops on flames
Kept a little mild, a little  low,

Every day when the dusk
Would arrive at the park,
The girl would there come
Just to , over phone, talk.

(*Note: upon a drawing loosely based as attached, done by me)

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