You waver and intoxicate with
the excitement and uncertainty of sports.
You even manage to pan like a Mexican wave.
And today, in your efforts of fragrance,
you carry the misery of sudden defeat.
An unforeseen lack of celebration.
Inebriation of the dance of malign feet
and a subsequent pain of abrasion.
When you rub me off yourself,
and leave a skinless body of remnants,
express remorse for the flashgun
so hungry for your innocence.
Innocence or conscience or honesty
or whatever are your supposed virtues.
Pains still have the uniform rhythm
of haggard permanent hues.
© 2007 Ritwik Banerjee
Ritwik Banerjee is licensed under a
Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 License.