Do you have something for me to read ?

There may not come a day
when we no longer count
our fingertips,as peaks
we feel all better for life on,
he wised,and I could tell
he knew what he
was saying.I had to try
and confront him, because
I never quite belonged;
and I thought I knew my
mountains from the unpoetic
apparatus.I had theories about
recreation, while he likened
to the kind of man with
something he'd want to have
and someone he'd like
to be. A rush of cold-blooded
city breath turning over inside
his chest could be heard
whenever he spoke.It hurt me
immensely, that he referred to
poetry as whiskers-but-no-teeth.
They are like watchmen,
fond of wishing - Poets that is
he said.The poems,
and these were his last words
before he left for ever,
are their apologies to themselves
for wishing for someone else's
sleep.I stayed back for an
hour or so, after which I told
myself - I have stayed back an hour
or so, there is no point in leaving now

Someone asked me, when will you settle down?

I would feel settled
if that is some sort of thing
I know my mother is settled
because she tells me - bring
good luck if not good money
There are threads of discontent
I leave behind, like flicking my
tail while in the middle of a dog-train
My father, who is also settled
weaves them into plain
soliloquies which I trust
him to share at some
point in the future
I know the neighbourhood
is settled because men
and women gather to tee-hee
in the streets - some misfortune
in each guffaw, some
dents in each car
The city, must be settled
as there is no escape from the
identity of its weak -
as is with every other city
There is a whole lot of chewed gum
sticking to the underbelly
Country, of course, is settled
since there are no second
births, there are just second
lives. Lives that cannot
be lost ,or lived for free -
the economy of all of it
I'm not settled because
I exist on maps, feed on
arguments, and unrealistically
valued as real, like - borders

Lingerie

At times, I detested you growing up.
As if my conscience had been nabbed
from remembering us, twined
in a corner of the yard, in summers -
tarrying sustenance of any kind -
in winters, the breakers of spring.
Your windows, once glazed
with poop pictures,
I drew for you-now with
spunky whites,laced with black and blue
unfit for scoping, through my hands.
Hands from whose shell, the oysters
have stepped out - as if toe to toe,
You still had bigger steps to take.
And now there is this void, of ineptitude-
You never talk. You only ask.
But I promise,
I will find something for us to do