Poem: Us on a bench

Imagine me, melting on this
bench. A book drooping its
pages onto my hand.

My fingers tell me that your
blue denim creased my face.
I open half of one eye.

You like me sleeping you say.
Ease the eyelid with a finger-
tip. I am stubborn. I won’t.

I like a little light in my eyes.
Imagine us, getting thirsty,
drinking the afternoon sun.

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0 Responses to Poem: Us on a bench

  1. megha says:

    Lovely. Drinking in the afternoon sun is nothing short of elysian, me thinks.


  2. tinkertoon says:

    now if Norah Jones were to lend voice to that, won’t it be simply fantastic?


  3. mumbaigirl says:

    My husband tells me he likes me sleeping too.


  4. Crazyfinger says:

    “A book drooping its pages onto my hand,” at once reminded me of “Southampton Dock” and another image – of a frozen image just as she was getting in (or out of?) to a car – from “Perfect Spy.” No reason to ask why, I suppose. Triggers and rearranges recollections.

    That, “I am stubborn. I won’t.” Is it being stubborn to open the other eye, or being stubborn to close this one too…?🙂 Very nice.

    I absolutely loved that: “My fingers tell me that your blue denim creased my face.” If one stares at this phrase long enough, one wholly and fully grasps the magic of being alive on a sunny blazing afternoon.

    Regards, Crazyfinger