Seventy Three Dollars

Last night I spent
Seventy three dollars on a
Mediocre meal with people
Who barely know me
And I shall carry this lack of
seventy three dollars
with me to my grave
A permanent needle in my side
Seventy three dollars shall hang over my head like
A sword, around my wallet like an albatross,
Until I take it out on my son.

Peter Pan

The clock hangs heavy and broken on
my living room wall, leaking time
as the minor-key afternoon lengthens into
early evening, casting vertical bars onto the floor
while outside optimism rages like a
Californian wildfire.

I sit on my yoga mat and practice
Lululemon mindfullness but
am I even a person or
just a prism refracting words and thoughts into
a spectrum of moods (one
for every day of the week).
Weekdays pass by in an eye-blink but
the weekends are interminable.

The clock hangs heavy and broken and
I feel like I have stopped growing.
मैं अपनी ही परछाई हूँ,
(I am my own shadow,)
searching for a girl to stitch me to a boy
but
in this incompleteness, in
the absence of light, in
the long dark never ending Saturday tea-time of the soul
is when I feel most like myself.