Today, if I were to rush,
it would only be till
the window...
To strain for berries,
and then to catch
the tones I missed
in the song that's on loop
since morning.
After all, it is Monday,
a Sabbath for poets.
Monday rains are shy,
selfless creatures of creation;
they talk in whispers,
sing in sighs;
leave us with introverts two,
a background score
that loses to the blues
in our playlists;
the mist, gentle and subdued,
who stays backstage. Always.
If the cold drops were smokers,
or had warm breath like
the kids of Democracy,
they could leave
symbols on my pane.
Footnotes on the music,
their sense, the belonging,
and who bears the bill
for their concert;
I see an empty hall.
-- Leslie Xavier
