outside the front door,
hibiscus — last summer’s buds
cling to faint brown limbs
as if they have more to give,
as if they are not browned themselves.

still they promise life
as if they have more to live —
lying little pods.
they have come from nowhere else;
sit like birds, eggless.

dead buds hang, inert
on hibernating limbs — some
will fall off by spring.
some will hold on till they can’t.
spring will come when all have gone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T

Grab the ladle from
the server and chug it down
despite the burning of your throat
and the protests of the people
who just came down to help.

Your clothes are ragged, your clothes
are dirty, your clothes are
mismatched and of odd sizes;
you don’t care, you don’t give
a server’s sense of ownership
of what they are
or how long they’ve toiled for you.
You just want soup, hot and thin
and enough to hold you still overnight.

Out to the day you go
and a server blesses you, tentatively
as if they aren’t sure you deserve it.
You aren’t sure either if you do
but you shrug and take it.

It’s cold out here. Wait to see
what comes for you, what mercy
might fall to you. Maybe
a bhangra song of lost love
in a snatch overheard, maybe
nothing but car horns and curses.

Tomorrow
might be different. In fact,
it might not come at all.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T