From My Window

Strolling in Connaught Place on an evening where the moon is a chip away from perfect  

This half circle of serendipities––

I dare not take a full circle, 

wary of who I encounter.

I’ve plugged my ears  

(in case someone I know calls me from behind; knows my name) 

There is an immigrant’s cafe beside H&M 

And I am only a window shopper

At 9pm on a Monday

In January. 

Who are these people so sure of themselves?  

Sitting on its benches:  purposeful  

even in the way they’re eating by the roadside

regardless of the mist, 

regardless of the moon

This swarm of possibilities start clouding my senses 

And like a stench takes over

I’m not from here I remind myself 

Counterfeit somethings lining footpaths 

I’m just roaming here for the moon 

The smell of incense and a silk green tie from a lit up window shop beckon 

Are these mannequins not stiff from standing? 

I stop at the other side of a large window 

The inverted leg of half a mannequin 

In fishnet stockings  

a fly beats against this window 

against the invention of human illusion 

repeatedly, 

mistakes glass for air 

a bulb for sun

(and who knows 

maybe similes for metaphors)

And I, despite knowing this 

stand on the other side of this window

and walk away.