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A solitary man
Walks on a long glistening road,
Running between
The ripe green fields,
In this August rain;
A horse old
Stands in the street,
Eyes watery, tail flipping;
A shop selling used furniture,
Is crammed with
Lots of vacant chairs and stools.
The three images random,
Like the unending,
Heated arguments,
Of the screaming couples,
Old or new,
Like the sparring warriors,
Of Ancient Rome,
Bald arguments,
Their swords that cut and thrust,
And drew blood,
In the heart,
Arguments running
But making no sense,
Done only to spite the other.
Angry, hissing, partners,
In stuffy curtained rooms;
Heard erupting, often
These clashes verbal,
And then forgotten,
As boring routine,
Snatches of hatred,
Embedded in loveless marriages,
But caught by other avid listeners,
Who forget their own.
On lonely nights,
When rain comes
And knocks at the doors, windows,
Like a wandering, unwelcome tramp,
Across the urban centers,
From Madrid to Mumbai,
Highlighting isolation supreme.
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