I wake up to find myself staring out the window on the
far side of the room. I am naked waist up, and a cigarette
smokes feebly between my fingers. I must have made some
noise for the-other-I turns back, looks at me for a while,
then says without a preamble, 'I am leaving you.'
There's finality in the statement, and I can't bring myself to ask
why. So I settle down for the second question. 'For whom?'
It seems rather insensitive, and almost as soon as it's out
of my mouth, I regret bringing it up.
'That painter with the funny name across the street. His
work is making waves, and unlike you, he isn't stuck with
a niche, dead-end, obscure form of poetry.'
painting his toenails
a deeper red
~ ~ ~ ~
Last Friday there was a pick-up notice in my snow covered group mailbox. I was a bit nervous asking for the mysterious package at the village P.O., wondering if it might be some kind of dunning notice, a tax assessment or some similar legal problem. Nope, just a small poetry book sent all the way from India.
Relief turned to mild petulance, altho I knew I should be grateful. What to do, what to do. Another overly serious younger poet looking for guidance, a kind word perhaps, maybe hoping for a handout of some sort, literary or financial.
So Rainsdrops chasing Raindrops sat on my kitchen table during my late brunch, and when the Irish cream in my coffee kicked in, I accepted the small book's challenge and read a haibun. Poetic! Sensitive! Humorous, even!
This morning's poem - above - had me spitting raisins from my raisin bran in laughing recognition!
Hooray for Paresh Tiwari and his twisted, honest and often outrageously funny take on the haiku/haibun genre.