Frame Poem by prabhakar bhatlekar

The rusty lock of the little
frame-shop hammered and broke open.
Untidy hip of broken frames
covered with full of cobwebs.
Old man was asking himself
for what he opened the shop?
Moodily he nodded looking
at the hip for a while
and then began lifting
frame after frame.
Portraits of great people
now forgotten.
Senseless history.
Some landscapes and
many brittle cracked frames.
Frantically he was searching something.
School children gathered to watch.
He turned and looked at them.
They fled laughing
but a little girl stayed.
Hesitantly she pointed
at the frame in his hand.
A framed picture of
a knitted butterfly he found.
"It's by my mummy..."
Old man looked in her eyes
and held the frame to her
"take...! "
"Um..how much? "
"Nothing dear! Where is your mummy? "
"She is no more.."
He wiped the butterfly-frame carefully
and gave it to her
-the only memory of his mother.