Strangers At My Door Poem by Mandira Mitra

So, that’s how he mutates.
Toothless octogenarian, drooling spit
Finished in all fine details
Down to a once-black long umbrella,
Punjab lorry slippers and
Son-died-in-accident vacant eyes
Inviting you to a detour
Of deserts you imagined left behind.
Sometimes a factory hand turned salesman
(Upcoming bridge put them out of work)
Shoving a plastic sack between your door hinges
Disrupting meals; importuning you to take a look
To please take a look at least—
Desperate eyes smelling your guilty
Lunching munching fingers.
Doors become two-way mirrors.
Shaking off years of hibernation
Shedding layers of lullaby and meandering sleep
Grey cells whirr into action and speak:
Save tears for newspaper sorrows
There are smiles to go before a weep
And smiles to go before a weep.