Sitting near the barred window,
The indisposed wordsmith gazes
Out on the bustling world, impassive
Doing nothing practical, except looking out,
With his fourth cup of masala tea,
In the eyes of the critical others,
But,
Unknown to these folks,
The ordinary guy, gazing out,
Eyes afar into the horizon,
Blessed with
An extra-ordinary memory,
Is currently
Recording many atoms falling
On his subconscious universe and outside,
And storing them for use as---
His next poem/s
That will shoot up,
Like the tender green stalks in the
Submerged paddy fields,
In his mind very soon.
