The button was stiched
sixteen and a half years ago
on a winter morning
just in time,
before the bus left -
the important
of its presence on
a school uniform

Only a child can understand.

Today, it lies hanging out of
the tattered piece of cloth
which was once used to be
my shirt.

It reminds me of the
fights, dramas and the
pricked finger of yours
as you sat there stitching.

Square roots,
had troubled me since childhood
Until I learned how
to derive the square root of
a poem.

You place the poem
firmly between the planes of
logic and imagination
running parallel - each to the other
and grasp each multiple of thought
that  you catch swimming in your heart

and then simplify
one by one - the shreds of words
off the poet's diary

and you must repeat
until you discover
the ultimate joy
manifest as non-divisibility
of a zero.

What remains in your basket
is the square root of the poem
Hear, as it speaks to you,
tugging at the flesh enclosed
within your chest,
listen as it conveys
the myriad of emotions-
hesitations, ecstasy, impulse, shame and rage.
Each alteration hidden beneath
neat metres, rhyme schemes and free verses

Born of an unseen, unknown
infinite mutlitude of thoughts.

Sunlight seeps through
little cracks on the
broken windows, cuts in
the red curtain,
loose openings of
unhinged doors
and slits in the
scraped walls.

As I wake up
yet another day,
to the mellow touch
on my forehead-
your endearing insistence
on lighting up my day
despite the many barriers
wins.

Last night-
the soft raindrops shattered
on the brick pavement
as the drops lay dying-
they were reborn as  
a ***** trickle,
which washed the dust laden brown  bricks
to flame orange.

Blue of the rains
merged with the blue
of the shoddy plastic sheet
above the old cobbler's forehead
where destiny had scribbled poverty.

Will the rain wash it away too?

She thinks,
sometimes too much.

A thought-
abstract and gas like
is condensed.

And grows,
only to become a
stray ant -

that emerges
from the depths of her hair
and starts running along
the loose strands -

which I pluck
and throw away.

I wish,
she would not think,
as much as she does,

sometimes even thinking
about how thoughts
must be thought.