I’m Like A

Dusty, middle-aged Steinway concert-grand,
A little under-used and over-priced;
Regularly maintained and polished, keys still
Ivory white and ebony black; relatively mature,
Yet I have many more years to live;
Slightly off-key but correctly wired,
And the soundboard shows no signs of cracking.

Pseudo-globetrotter – I travel from skyscraper to
Concrete fortress to skyscraper in the bustling
City lights of downtown, in metal sedans that crisscross
The island like an Airbus circling the globe,
Flying non-stop for 24 hours, just as I am awake
24/7. Home is but a house where I take a catnap – in the sunlight
Or moonlight I am roaming the exhaust-heavy highways.

I have 20 fingers (including my toes, of course),
14 are crucifixes, 1 is an empty, wooden cross,
And the remaining 5 are a decade of rosary beads each,
Screaming for mercy and intercession every night.
And in the midst of the chaos, spotlights and plasma-screens
Of city-life do I find some time, in an air-conditioned
Cell, to pray, like I’m on the pews of Sunday morning again.

Pilgrim, travelling from the Vatican to Mecca and back to a makeshift home.