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The blank gaze,
The weathered face,
Crisscrossed with the
Throbbing veins,
Wispy hair scattered
On a scalp visible,
The old woman,
Early mornings,
Sits in the little
Red-bricked courtyard,
Of a two-storied house
Still asleep;
The wiry woman,
Now bent,
With dried-up hands
Washes their clothes,
The heavy
Rains battering
Her frail frame;
She found sitting daily,
Near a washing machine,
Eyes blank,
Staring at nothing,
Fingers automatic,
White doors always ajar,
At this early hour,
Outside the threshold
That she cannot cross---
Lies stretched
An indolent
Empty,
Indian suburban street,
Watched idly by a
Stray
And a
Babbling idiot.
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