I am
so tired and full of tears,
said the threadbare cloth of gold.
Beaten hands, beaters’ hands
rock the monsoon-baby’s crib.
I am
so wakeful and full of fears,
said the fountain in the square.
Visitors, thirsty, put
chapstick lips to dirty pipes.
I am
so mended and full of cracks,
said the walkway to the house;
so careful, so old, so planned
to give support. Say no more.