Vacancies 2017

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 wheels

across the road, just that you aren’t there.