Shooting Stars

There was still light in the fading evening sky, just enough to delay the gloom of dusk. I was waiting then and I continued to wait for months worth of hopeful days and yearning nights. I wished on shooting stars that fell just for my eyes in the quintessential New York sky suffocating with concrete silhouettes.

Shooting stars lie.

The No. 7 Train

Languages clash on engrossed cell phones
that are unmindful of public space.
Black and brown shoes rest in different pairs of legs;
Keep their distance like respectful strangers.

I keep my face down,
resist the view of the big city flying below;
For eyes can't reach where the mind is now:
Home.

Red manicured fingers tap iPhones;
When will fashion come natural to me?
Large studded earrings dangle music
from ear plugs and mock my loneliness.

I see shadows of gloom as bright white morning light
falls on sloped roofs and cars and Taco Bell;
No one told me that New York City looks
poor and lonely from the no. 7 train.

I am on the no. 7 train;
A long, long way from home.

-Gauri Gharpure
October 27, 2011