THE POET IN RESIDENCE AND ON THE STREET

The poet on the street

Asked to the writer in residence

“Can I come to you?”

"Indeed, indeed

When the time is up

And things are set right,

I will give you a call!”

“But my landlord has thrown me out

And my things are all gone

And I am calling from the street

An artist without a residence now.”

“Oh, I didn’t know that!

I didn’t know that!”

“But the time is up

And I have to move somewhere

For the snow may bite me

If I keep here too long

Or the booze may drown me-

So how can this be done.”

“Ha, ha.. you know

The artists without residence

Who will take them in?

Those that are smokers

Those that are drunkards

Those that left houses

When the wind blew them out

Those that are hookers and hawkers

Who will take them in?”

“No idea dear,

For I am not a taker

For I am not for them.

Maybe they are needed in the street,

And can do some street art

When the right time comes.”

“But the winter is biting

Even  the squirrels refuse to

Give away bristles

And Fuhrer walks around

In swimming trunks.

So why do you have to go back to a house

For the bushes and thickets

Are rich in the blossoms?”

They may ask.

“I would still love some comfort, some care

If it is there”

I would prefer to answer.

Mara’s arrows have pierced even Rama

And he goes around with a letter to an unknown friend

In his hand

Hoping  to pass it on

When the time comes!