The monsoon and I arrive, every year
about the same time, and the sky’s shampooed
with sudsy clouds, the asphalt’s rinsed in mud,
all the way through the city up to here
awash with reflections, the tree leaves clear
of past dust, debris. But change’s accrued
in infinitesimal moves of blood;
in tiny degrees mapping atmosphere.
A house has fallen vacant on a street -
overgrown, greedy vines snap at its heels.
A locked cupboard somewhere, an empty chair,
a pair of old, worn slippers minus the feet.
The city commute’s the same, the same rain wheelsacross the road, just that you aren’t there.