Sunday.
I took a flint and bounced it across the water,
It flew off my palm,
and left me with some moist clay.
It bounced across the surface,
went far, and sank silent.
Sharp on the edges,
It went where it wanted to,
And where the wind,
luck or my dexterity would take it.
Monday.
I am on a train.
Heading towards London.
In between two worlds,
my head bouncing against the Window.
The train reaches Kings Cross station,
I zigzag the crowd,
a sea of rushing suites,
and in my empty seat,
a half read newspaper,
is left by me for someone,
so that they would know or not know,
care or not care,
that here in this seat,
a head bounced against the Window,
eyes had shut and opened for a journey,
fingers flung the pages,
on once someone’s paper,
but now left for their palm.
