The Grumpy Man at the Door
The
man at the door gave the impression
of being a red- eyed, grumpy clerk,
maybe a superintending clerk- bored stark.
I heard someone belching explosively in the dark.
Why was I hyperventilating? Palpitating?
Grating my teeth, hating every moment of it.
I was fighting
Fighting
Fighting panic.
“Turn on the light, will you?”
The lights were turned on.
The man was there, file in his hand.
He adjusted the spectacles on the tip of his nose,
and glared through them.
“Can’t you turn on your inner lights?”
Then he ticked a name off the list.
The lights again went off.
In the pitch dark, I cried.
None heard. Had I died?
Do…do …do
Do…do …do
Why
was I psyching myself up?
Jumping up at every sound.
Was someone pounding at the door,
stalking me, hounding me?
Don’t you know a drought is round the
corner?
The sea is rising. The sea is rising.
The ice is thinning.
Wake up wake up
Hear the mosquitoes buzzing,
or doing whatever mosquitoes do?
Do…do …do!
The
nocturnal surroundings echoed.
Do…do …do
greenhouse gas emissions
have increased heatwaves, you know, don’t you?
You!
You! You! You, the culprit,
You!
You!
You!
I am sweating. It is so hot …
So hot
Do…do …do!
“You are adding to the noise pollution.
Stop yakking, and pounding at my door.
I will do what you want me to do.”
Yes, do …do… do…
The
pounding stopped.
I hopped back into bed,
perspiring in the month of November.
No kidding. Of course I was sober.
The Howling Owl
Ever heard an owl howling?
I mean a real owl howling in a real way?
Mine does. It does, making a fuss about
something.
It is almost morning, I part the curtains.
There it is, sitting on a branch looking directly into my eyes.
Its eyes move towards the Kitty lounging
on the sofa.
Another sitting on the mantelpiece.
The third one snuggled in my lap.
Clap – clap- clap go the leaves.
Flap- flap- flap go the owl’s wings.
Flap- flap- flap.
I snap out of my reverie
I wish I could slap the owl out of its flapping.
It is sulking and moping, pouting and
brooding.
Well, can an owl pout with a beak? I doubt.
But it definitely is a lout, trying to wield its nocturnal clout.
I venture out, not exactly to meet that
lout,
or fish for trout, but to find out what this is all about.
Silly, I am not rhyming.
Well, did anyone say that rhyming is a crime?
I go on and on and on
walking on an undulating lane,
the trees are rustling, singing some nostalgic refrain.
The lane takes me into a forest,
there is some fidgeting in the nests.
A thick undergrowth dotted with elegant cottages.
Would I find the melodious birds of Christopher Marlowe
singing madrigals near some waterfall?
The owl has followed me here. Do you hear its call?
Well, I tell you,
a fertile imagination can make things
appear pretty droll.
The owl is still howling, sitting on the grassy knoll.
Owls are wise, they say.
Pray, what is this howling owl trying to
say?
Perhaps, warning me against the looming clouds, grey?
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