We now sit at the ends of a protrusile table
unspooling the threads of our own stories.
Earlier, in a poetry reading we placed all our
cards on the table, showing some and
telling some. Much noise then, as opinions
got entangled into a spaghetti of nonsense.
I could feel the tug as you fished me out
with a sharp and lengthy look which lasted
as I was reading my offering at that makeshift
altar of formless poetry. The noise drowned out
as the poets capped their thoughts for the day
and went home to prose. We remained though
in the afterglow before dissolving our ways in
the madness of the rush home traffic.
Communication these days is easy we thought.
Just a matter of buttons here and there. But,
we stuck to the golden rule: no first use policy.
Till sometime else there was something else
and we made our ways to meet somebody else.