Clockwork 

We know the clockwork 
of the old man. At seven
he stands in his balcony 
and urinates. We avoid 
the corridor that runs below 
and mellows into a lane.

Lately his clock runs amok.
I, a bit wet, shout ‘Hey!’ 
loud at the sky, at the bird
that mocks the Spring breeze.
Through the crevices in 
the cement grass and green grin.
One white butterfly, too tiny
to be called ‘One’, flies to and fro.
These all have been resurrecting 
so often that time has 
ceased to purturb their existence.

.

.