Read Time:37 Second
Rarely he comes, but once in a year,
with sun-baked smiles for yes men
wrists cupped by the burdens
of holding unto grudges on file,
he is not like rain, certainly
not harmattan or heat wave
yet he snootily finds his way in,
kissing doors and melting locks
he’ll ask for my name, like
I’ll ask for his, to forget again.
I won’t call him Valentine,
for he bears no tint of love
no rose in return for harvest,
only sketches on dotted paper,
then he is gone, gone like mist,
never to heed an earnest call
or come heal a garden’s patch,
a rupture on plumbing conduits
till harvest’s morn, when the
seasons bid him come again!
