A Motion Of Love Poem by Satyaki Majumdar

Hesitation,
Wrapping up the morning
In pausing scratches.

Itching backside,
Warm remnants of time
Against a chair.

Striations in the wood
Undulate,
Sighing their burdens
Into the void.

Yet some mornings pass,
In cups of tea and cigarettes.

Eight o' clock,
The mousetrap has begun,
Snapping up such prolific, proffered bait.

And all the while, chairs,
Patiently await,
The arrival of a bum.

Weather eye, whether eye
Or ear, or finger, or lip,
Upturned, pen ensconced,
Resumes its ignominious scratching.

Sharp, unrelenting will,
Carving lines into her face.

Nine o' clock.
Heartless writer, heart writer-less,
Stops, pauses, ascends.

A slide, a rush of air,
And then he is gone.

The lines bleed black and blue on her face.
Oozing memory and pain,
The price of immortality.

And all the while, the chair sighs,
Its burden of warmth,
Past tables and windows,
Past trees and neighbours,
Into the sky.