My hide

My counted patience

Literal chide

Thought it speaks

Thought it reeks

Thought it wanders

In the streets

Though it riddles

Though it runs

Thought it is

A patient one

Flickers from the TV set

Curls, cold, on empty bed

Makes a joke

Within my head

Runs to meet

Your words half-said

This figure is a knowing pest

It dwindles on without a rest

Sticks its fingers in the pie-

This one's too cold- too hot for I

Published: 11/13/08