LatinosUSA

shut out from the world,
my life fits in neatly
into the dimensions of this room
Ma had it painted recently.
one entire wall, floor to ceiling
the guy from Asian Paints
suggested a tropical forest:
birds frozen mid-flight,
petals strewn by an imaginary wind,
bamboo trees, bowing
as though offering respects
to Mother Earth

morning, noon, night,
those painted wings keep flying
blossoms never wilt.
“Movement,” he called it.
I know better

retreating to my window seat
I watch the real-world rush by
vendors arguing, children racing,
bikes coughing smoke into evening traffic,
people forever arriving somewhere
and, I keep writing,
because words are the only things
that still remember,
how to walk out of this room