The Metamorphosis Poem by Mathew Thomas

I am a small farmer, who tills half acre for a living,
And you a barber, shaves hair for a living,
We both had things in common,
I prayed for the rain, while you, for heads to shave,
What a joy it was for simple village talk,
When we met at the barber shop,
Or in the evenings under the banyan tree,
But then you decided the village needs something more,
At least one politician, for it had every one else in other vocations,
So it was when we went around, during election time,
To seek the blessings of our neighbours,
And lo, it was when the result was announced,
You were the Panchayat president,
Who no longer shaved heads,
While I remained, the simple farmer who tilled his half acre.

You had meetings with the district collector,
While I had meetings with the summer,
You became busy, so busy,
Waiting for the Chief Minister,
I too was busy praying for rain,
Meanwhile,
You forgot we were friends and that I campaigned,
You closed shop as you did not find time,
Before the months passed,
You have a glistening new four wheeler,
Now you do not shave heads any longer,
But others shave it for you in the city’s slick saloon,
With pretty hands massaging your scalp in the afternoon.

As days go by, the queues get longer,
When all that you do is to put your thumbprint, on the paper,
And rarely do we meet,
For you have important things to do, like meeting the contractors and the party workers,
And do not have time for this simple farmer,
You in Khadar whites, neatly starched and pressed,
A contrast!
Now that you have a peon and a PA,
I find it ridiculous that I cannot meet you,
And have to wait in the queue,
What a metamorphosis,
From a creepy caterpillar to a political butterfly,
Sir, its best I spit on the likes of you.
© Mathew Thomas,2013