A poemless day brings me closer to the vegetables. And to strapless rubber slippers, broken today . Sikander at the street corner has straps hanging like little snakes. He fits one on my strapless feet.
Now standing near vegetables , not including gourd snakes, I hold a bagful of vegetables ,some jutting out of my plastic bag. Where is the poetry in all this?
Poetry is mercifully in editing between sentences. Which is what I am going to do , once I reach home from streetside vegetable market. This is going to be one hell of a sentence with the editing in between.
I shall have snake of a strap on my rubber slippers.