Cold/Concrete poem/Anaphora-Epistrophe


The oldman retreated

For the way he was treated

Back to his car

Lugging his tote bag

Hanging crestfallen from

His aged shoulders

His papers & pins & clips & pen

All packed safely, neatly, serially

Like his pompadour from where

An errant silver strand had come free

And he flicked  it deftly in; strictly

Observed by keen eyed dour face

On the other side of the screen

Of men who love the facade

Their counter gave them

The glass pane that gave them the

Distance between a servant & client


He’d waited in the queue

Till his ego allowed

Why don’t you sit down for

A while old man? A concerned

Had called aloud. Yes, yes  why

Don’t you sit down  for a while,

While we’ll keep your place in the line.

He’d conceded after a while,

While the dour face blinked.

He blinked while he typed some

Important things on the computer.

Then he mulled and frowned at the

Difficulty of his chore

Then clicked some more while the

Line shifted from one leg

Onto another

‘Pay attention! ‘ He screamed

All of asudden

His voice trembled as he stared

With cataract eyes

‘File my bills! Its close to closing time.

I….AM close to closing time.’ And rubbed

His fingers across his temple

Squelching the sweat between his fingers

The face looked back coldly this time

His eyes like a line, as a feline

Turned his lips upturned for a while

While all others gazed at such

Huge waste of time. And then he turned

Back to his official business on the

Computer, as he completed the row of

Spades of Solitaire.

The oldman retreated

For the way he was treated.


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