Sunday Morning without my Glasses.

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Through saffron washed shades,

My sleepless eyes peep at the bright Sunday sun.

My familiar green purse with my stock of change,

I set out from home, this Sunday morning,

Without my glasses, my weekday eyes.

.

The damp trees all stand, towering over me…

Smug and sated after drizzles for the last few nights…

Like a witch’s prickly hair and pointed hat,

The willowy branches seem to point at me.

Forming black curves against the whipped blue sky.

.

Colourful paper squares soar overhead,

Tied to invisible cords spinning from spindles,

Held by unseen hands, all children out of sight…

Hazy lines of gleaming pinballs come rolling down,

The flyover down the road that draws towards town…

.

Something special is happening  today–

Some kind of campaign, some race-like procession.

Horse drawn carts racing along with motorbikes;

Car windows shooting out overgrown men,

Scarves tied on the heads, flapping behind.

.

Signboards I cannot see, my eyes are not with me.

But logos, and symbols I can make out.

I see the big M of McDonald’s, ’coz that was my destination,

As the hot aroma of butterscotch pancakes hits my sense of smell,

I cannot delay, my empty stomach affirms in a grumbled rebuke.

.

Hmph! Again a queue, this straightened out morning!

Probably BPO employees were out now, for dates after shifts,

I fake an accent, to pull the attention to me, a lonely visitor…

Only later did I notice, by far, I do not look anything

But a plain, fat, native, DU student out on a morning stroll.

.

A Sausage McMuffin, French fries and coke combined,

I have a decent meal to name on the roll at last.

Cuddling couples stare, I stare back; they don’t know, they’re not my eyes.

Like coins in my purse jingle, their accusing glares bounce right off me–

Never leaving it, like change, just piling up more and more…

.

Sadly, now that the morning’s passed,

And without my glasses, I’ll have to return back.

Gems put out on display catches the light–

I look at the shiny jewellery shops as I go,

But no eyes here, to watch them shine.

.

It’s broad and harsh daylight now…

And I have to get back home, before,

While crossing the wide road,

I’m trampled by a truck or a van,

I mistook for a shiny silver pinball.

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18 thoughts on “Sunday Morning without my Glasses.

  1. The tree’s branches were pointed at you to remind you of how beautiful you are, and the skies let down their tears, to tell you they cry for your sadness, and yet all do pray that the eyes of your heart will receive the praise of one far away…for you are indeed beautiful, talented, wonderful and “Very Special”. I am sending you a smile my sister! Great Poem!

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