Some mornings

Some mornings are like that.
It's too warm under the duvet
and too cold outside it.
I twist,turn and roll around in bed.
Still the same, no relief. 

I sense an impending poetry.
I shut my eyes and sigh 
at that inevitable period of pregnancy,
from now, to the time when that poem
will finally be born, and put into the world,
wrapped up in the warm towel of English words,
screaming out metaphors, gurgling rhymelessly,
red, from the cruel pierces of punctuation marks.

Why can't I sleep, normally,
why do bad dreams always pick me out?
and practice all their dark-themed theatre,
in the slumbering arena inside my head?
What was the deal with my childhood home?
Why did y'all choke me, by building
buildings all around it?
What was the deal with that person?
Why did y'all make me do,
unspeakable things, to him?
What was the deal with that child?
Why did y'all keep me stunned,
when he begged me for rescue from abuse?

I try again.
It's too warm under the duvet
and too cold outside it.

Home is where you belong,
(under the duvet, so to speak)
But nothing grows there, they say,
(because it's too warm, I think?)
Here I am, away and thriving (really?),
but then, it is, on some mornings,
way too cold out here. 

'Good food, good books,
good work, good company,
good movies, good coffee,
good bed'.

Good food, (and sparkling water),
good books, (and more to arrive),
good work, (and in great quantity),
good company, (and optimal social interaction),
good movies, (and their background scores),
good coffee, (and a Starbucks mug),
good bed, (and that duvet),

no sleep.

Look here, you have no reason,
to complain and fret.
There is food in the fridge,
there is this cute home, wood and white.
And of course, there is the duvet.

Are you not writing this poetry,
(Wait, can you even call it a poetry?
Sounds more like a low degree rant.)
while in Kropcke, the old man holds the placard:

'Cold and Hungry'

while in Bangalore, the grandma* stares
blankly ahead, at the walls of the subway,
decorated with stains of spit,
while in Pune, the girl** on crutches,
begins her day of selling those 
abnormally long pens at traffic signals,
on roads with tars getting furious
as the sun climbs higher,
while children of war cry for bread,
while unemployed youth kill for work,
while women pine for a touch of love,
while men crave for a pint of beer,
while mother tigers are shot dead,
while the cubs are uncertain of their fate,
while ice melts in the Arctics,
while scientists freeze in the Antarctics,
while dolphins are murdered on beaches,
while farmers are committing suicide,
while little girls are torn apart,
while ... ... ...?

Sweet mother of lord!
The sun is not up yet.
Where is my duvet?



The featured image is an independent work of: Smeet Soni

He clicked this picture near Vaishnodevi, Katra, Jammu and Kashmir, India

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