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Apr 2019
Some summers,
My poem is a makeshift home,
It’s cheap tarpaulin hanging by two sticks,
You won’t notice it,
It’s barely even seen,
Let alone stand out,
There are no commuters,
No visitors,
My poem is a makeshift home,
It has unfamiliar cookware resting on its jagged platform,
Sometimes the plastic leaks of sunlight,
And I drown in its shallow puddles,
It’s mostly worn out letters with fatigued arms,
Wrongly fit pieces of a puzzle,
Some summers,
My poem is a makeshift home,
Shabby,
Severed,
Passable,
Home.
Sayali
Written by
Sayali  24/F/Mumbai
(24/F/Mumbai)   
222
 
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