After the downpour
Streams flow through the land
And little ponds spot the paths and roads
Each standing beside the other’s imperfect circular border.

After the downpour
The household goes in to bed early
And the streets look like a ghost town
The late worker hurries home
Looking over his shoulders
Lest the thief leaps from the shadows.

After the downpour
The land forbids the man’s shoes
And he must roll up his trousers to wade through the streams and ponds
On barefoot
Flinching at the sight of the wiggling black leathery flukes
His shoes dangling from the crook of his fingers
Lest he wears them no more

The fat woman has fallen off the bike and into the puddle
The bikers laugh and catcall
The boys on foot cheer
The woman gets off from the puddle drenched with the murky waters
She wouldn’t blame the sorry biker
He had plunged into a deeper part concealed by the flood
There is nobody to blame for the deep floods;
Not the government
Not the pot-bellied fellow who took the money for the contract undone
Not me
Nor you
Not the man who sets irregular-faced rocks in the floodwater
For you and I to skip along
Not those who get entertained at the fellow who slips a foot
And falls into the floodwater
Every man can do nothing but wad through
The murkiness of our drenched world
That, is my world
After the downpour


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