Ishita
(i)
He knocks at your window as he reclaims
A narrative from a lost kingdom
One, where they rolled down their windows
And let the lost men in.
The women had all died
Remembering conquered terrains
Those, of a language only they knew
They had left behind glittery rubber slippers-
remnants of their last laugh from their last meeting.
The kingdom never called them co-conspirators
The people never looked at them
(ii)
He calls himself The City Man
Pastes his résumé on your window
Measures your transfixed eyes
Against the length of his experience
Quantifiable, listed, verified
He tells you he lost a shoe
Amongst a strange heap of burning rubber (“The flames glittered-
As if it rained fairy dust!”)
(iii)
The City Man disappears
As if in an obscene gesture
Of hand and mouth.
You find the sheets he pasted in front of your face
Burning in the backseat
As the light turns, red to green
Green to pink
And you spot a black leather shoe
Swinging, tied to a shiny street light pole
As if left around to mark lost pathways.
(iv)
The joke, my friend, is on you.