The window is weeping
when the signal brake opens my eyes.
A deluge of impatient cars are at least 5 feet beyond the mark,
each racing the other inch-by-inch
Most of them are only a little greyer than the clouds that hang over them.
The monsoon is a terrible time for selling cheap literature at signals–
nobody seems to care for drenched piracy
But flowers benefit from the drops of rain
that make their day-old selves appear romantic enough
to be sold for twice their worth.
Gerbera necks stand stiff, thanks to the able assistance of broomsticks
Graveyard roses, stripped of their grieving outer petals, are bud-fresh to the rushed eye
Jasmine gajras in various patterns and stages of bloom
dangle from a mass of twisted twine held by a tired hand
as it bobs from window to apathetic window.
The Sontakka wraps its pristine self in a deep green shawl of foliage
as it waits quietly to flash on an inward eye.
At 4 fresh bunches for 20, it is a steal.
I roll down my window and wipe its tears;
I bring home the Sontakka and let mine flow instead.
With special thanks to William Wordsworth