Maybe this too is a lesson after all
the endless wait in mizzling winter rain
windows pricked by droplets, has a moral.
A training in patience, and speaking plain.
Some distant hands ball into angry fists
an old protest song raises a dust storm
the poet’s labelled, it’s you who feels diminished
at the narrowness that now defines home.
The tamarind - wasn’t it enough for ten?
the tiniest spaces were stretched into broad
a foothold for the last man on the train,
was he ever asked for the name of his God?
Maybe the message nested in this pause
is to marshal your breath, and words, for the cause.
