Sunday, May 8, 2011

Stone Ring

Wind whipping rocks the cup

That rests on the flimsy table

Stop rocking the table
Its ridiculous.

It’s not me!

Your knee. Stop shaking
Your knee. Its not like
You have some disorder.

So it was.
I was rocking the table.
Not the wind.

She turned away
Her gaze to the red house

My room. There. That singular window.
Albert Camus used to live there.
He wrote his ‘The Adulterous Wife’
In that room. In my room.

I’ve never read Camus
I find him depressing

Why? She demanded
Because life is a fragrant bed of roses to you?

She drink her apple draught
Her stone ring
On her unhurried finger remotedly
Chink!ing against the glass


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