The Show

Tomorrow I might meet it.

Or tonight. Who knows?

Night is long and I assume, sufficiently dark

For it to appear and disappear

Unobserved. Or in the grey corner

It may lie long and flat, pretending

Dead. Then disappear again

In a short burst. Then

I will have to examine each room

And sleep after my back aches.

The thick one is dead (says my neighbour) that moved

Slow and unending like a goods train

And slept coiled like a huge tire.

“Mrs. Goswami”, she calls my mother from

The first floor across the street.

One was there before you unlocked the gate.

Silence.  Stretches her arms, mother nods.

Silence, probably

Is what it wants for the distinct

Hush before the show among the dry leaves.

This has happened

So often within me.

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