This poem is for every couch potato in the world, who chooses dormancy and the insubstantial over the extraordinary gift of a spirited life.
He plops himself on the sofa,
like a junked car forgotten in the garage;
with his bowl of chips,
the size of a crater on the moon.
He sits there from dawn to dusk,
like a building that has been there
forever,
like an immovable boulder,
like old, unused furniture lying in the
attic.
He is a rusting piece of machinery,
a stubborn lid on a jar,
lovers’ names scribbled on a monument,
a dusty corner in the house,
a paper weight on an empty desk,
a
foot path on a busy road,
an old, unswept, crumbly wagon,
stationed on a railway yard,
a
piece of barren land.
He remains unaffected by the bustle
around,
like a holy saint in meditation;
but people around him squirm and squiggle,
fidgeting like souls unable to rest in
peace,
vexed at his indifference and aloofness,
that are as exasperating as an ink blotch
on a crispy, new, white shirt.
