Hurriedly,

the poem

went out

into the street

even before it began.

 

The poem stretched its legs

and walked.

 

Soon, it had to

stop for breath.

 

Tired now, it wanted

to go back home,

but had forgotten

the way.

 

So the poem dragged itself

to a nearby tea seller

and sipping from

a tiny glass,

started singing:

 

Golden tea I really like. 

Steaming, golden tea.

 

The above poem is from my first book Reeling (2012).

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