The sleepy man at the museum
directed me to the balloons.

Ten out of ten shots went astray
proving my eyes are lame
and so my aim.

The galleries were eerily deserted.
(is people's interest in science flagging?)

I looked down the infinite well
for awhile eternally falling into it
recovering from the realization
they were merely infinite reflections.

The man's smile told he knew from my dazed look
I was lost in the mirror maze.

(Was I stuck in all the wrong exhibits
for my age?)

I got a ticket for the sky in September
finding peace in the dark of the planetarium.

The first bird (bard?) of the morn
I peeped into the salon.

Are you ready mate? I queried.

His eyes were ashes of night
and I doubted his mood.

I should be, he said
your hair is my livelihood.

Make it short I said
top bottom and the sides
and his scissors was Beethoven
soothingly rising and falling
making the sweetest sound
celebrating martyrdom of my hairs
resignedly falling on the ground.

But too soon it was over
and he held the mirror.

Wouldn't a little shorter be fine?

Nope, he smiled
considering your hairline
further recession would be a disaster.

I paid him buying his logic
and like a symphony
skimmed the air merrily.

Good ten minutes to four
I reached the temple door.

Take your offer for the God
the flower seller was eager
no haste, he smiled
his time for a rest
will soon be over.

I wondered
why I'm never contented
with what God has to offer
and as a rule
my bag of grievances is ever full.

In the faint light
I held his idol in my sight
listening in the quietude
to the temple pigeons.

With great peace
I bought two lotus at fifteen rupees
from the flower seller
dividing our happiness
into equal share.

When at the peak voltage
streetlights **** the stars
and behind closed doors
rumbling slumbers
down the cries of the nocturne
awakes a world of opened windows.

Home from the last show
eyes colored with screen idols
shadows huddling over supper
talk of the length and worth
the plot intrigues and intricacies
the creator's whims and fantasies
while unbeknownst the night lengthens
tiring the shadows
that excavate the trash bin's bottom
for living through the morrow.

The filaments feel lonelier
as those last windows shut down
starlight wasted
on an enveloped town.