5.00 am

mr. run-o-mill
from a mundane slumber
wakes up.
His sleepy eyes
Scan the walled curtained
Half-lit room.
He introspects
In gloom
Tucks it into his head
It’s not worthwhile
Leaving his bed
To open his window
To the same show.

5.03 am

he heard a tune
a bird’s call
that soon
turned a cacophony.
He felt tickled by the buzz.
Curtains
Rebellious no more
Yielded dollops of light.
Mr. run-o-mill
In him something stirred.
He couldn’t say what it was
He didn’t see
He just heard.

5.05 am

two-three words
came to his mind
and to his pleasant surprise
they found a few more
and formed a line
and then more and more
poured in….
that end of night
without breaking a sweat
mr. run-o-mill
by some hidden design
turned a poet.