The Influencer’s Inbox/Beggar’s

Apart from the usual threatening emails

nothing grabs her alteration. The moon

returns on the top half of the pane.

‘I need to make a video again.’ She

thinks and begins to choose the dress.

Light becomes her sequins.

Apart from the usual hoots nothing fills up

her inbox. An owl covers the eye of the light

for a moment, and then it too leaves ,

and she takes her sleep medicines.

Although She does not have one mailer

in her mind, the dreams about that one mail

noone sends tweets now and then.

Beggar’s

On this pavement you may

try, but evading the long hand

of the one legged beggar

is hard. I avoid his eyes. The coins

of the Sun on his palm makes me turn.

Walk, as fast as you can, pass

the kiosks, crowd, doors, steps,

piers, water, boats tilted

with the silver scales and dark eyes

turning pale. Walk for hours, days,

years, lives. Turn, and he is there.

You are still on the pavement.

His long arm reaches for the back

of your trouser legs, reminds

you what remains behind.

.

.