Hustled,
prodded and packed
Like a flock of sheep
Into the long, narrow aisle
of a jetliner,
They queue up to their assigned
seats
Fighting time, excess baggage
and the grime
Of rootless years stamped on
their faces.
All sense of this mad rush
Will soon be washed down with
immodest sips of whisky,
All explanations brushed aside—
Like the smooth-scented paper
napkins
Dispensed to preserve what little
there is left
Of human company.
Suddenly
in the midst of it all,
Somebody soundlessly wafts into
the picture
In a rain of glances.
Hugging a bunch of flowers to
her bosom,
She glides down the aisle
Coolly conscious of the confusion
around her.
Sheltered
in the eye of a storm,
She slips in and out of the
crowd
Expertly shielding her prized
possession
From the relentless onslaught
of pressing bodies.
Ah, somewhere somebody is waiting.
Somebody beyond
The metallic banshee of jets.
Somebody who cares.
Shimanta Bhattacharyya
Copyright © 2005 |
