The Master

Books from the master are slim.
They seem to measure the volumes
of rumpled up pages lying around
in a world of wicker baskets.
In view of all those wasted hours 
this collection that I am sifting through 
alone is the most prized one. 
A plant that flowers once in a lifetime. 
Why would such a plant survive?
Sneaking itself  from the predators 
that are everywhere, prowling like prose. 
"But why would poetry survive 
the onslaught of time?", the master asks
from the lofty book jacket with an impish smile.


(Billy Collins)

Trouble

A mountain can take it
A blade of grass can fake it.
But all of us here in between 
run for cover when it's seen.

Traffic island

Immobile in a river island of traffic
that is lapping around a long truck
I notice the trees on the roadside
waiting more patiently than me
for things to clear up so that
they can finally grow some leaves.
Just that afternoon, you were talking
about leaving the city and you said
you were counting time and money
more carefully than ever.
We agreed to that whatever in the
warmth of affirmative echo of friendship
and rowed the next day the usual.
But now I see everybody, walking around
with the engines revved up.
The compasses point homeward.
A home where we are all headed
once things clear out.