Untitleable

I have borrowed a lucrative excuse
From passersby in black gloves
For my seeming indifference
To queer escalating numbers in print.

The dead are not dead until
From my tapered sphere of concern,
I am able to notice –
Silence of a once-heard bird;
Absence of a whiff of tobacco;
Wailing of an aging mother;
Beading of a once-twinkling eye.

No, the dead aren’t dead,
Until the grief of their loss
Tiptoes like a sneaky thief –
Stripping the crinkles from my smile.

The dead to me, are alive
And I sing, dance and be merry –
If only I am careful treading roads,
Steering clear of vendors selling newspaper.

Perchance, the dead don’t even matter
In the bigger biological picture -
I’ve cherry-picked all sorts of scientific crap
To keep myself convinced, until I join their ranks.

Dec 12th, 2009.