The street lamp curdles my cream wall with
a tinge of acid yellow.
The light reveals all its
bumpy, plastered faults, like
clumped vanilla batter or
a Victorian’s lead-powdered cheek.
And me, restlessly alone,
casting graceful shapes on
this cratered canvas.
A silhouette feels more real
than crackling hands or
aching bones in these
hours of inertness.
When I miss cricket songs,
long for a star-freckled sky,
and sharp beams dice deep dreams
into meatless morsels, I
watch my shadow unfurl
so clement and reposed
as she happily inhabits
an imperfect world.
pm poetry 