When Poetry Runs for a Glide


16 in the afternoon. The wind, still it stood, trying to suppress its laughter. The people watched. Waiting for the outcome. Benign scrutinies were passed around like hotcakes. Axed egos lay around bleeding on the floor. An unfettered trail of smoke rose towards the heavens, proud to be freed from the confines of that bleached white, gunpowder ringed tube, whose ass was smudged with lipstick.

When the sun finally set, everybody’s vision was immediately clear: she was just a snub, waiting to happen.

That’s all she ever was.

Then the people went home, shaking their heads. The wind resumed its modern torture.