Postmeridian —
a haircutter in a quiet salon,
her half-peeled orange,
half-consumed gossip
over a cellophane-wrapped
cordless phone,
half-citrus hands,
a language I didn’t even

Cilantro being cut for dinner
by an older lady —
she overlooks the rain
ahead of the empty salon chairs,
her medium sized sweater’s tag
shows behind her neck.

It’s raining in nearly
half of the city.

The iridescence of rain falls
and the chameleon in you
licks the droplets,
calculates colors,
colors your insides,
makes you a ventriloquist
that speaks colors,
makes you a piece of art.

As the rainfall stops,
trees become pseudo clouds,
collaborate with the winds
to produce mini-rains.

Leaves fall on the ground
like a busy haircutter’s salon -
full of colored hair,

sans nationality
sans ownership.

There will be half moon tonight.

© Harrisham Minhas

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

You may use these HTML tags and attributes: <a href="" title=""> <abbr title=""> <acronym title=""> <b> <blockquote cite=""> <cite> <code> <del datetime=""> <em> <i> <q cite=""> <strike> <strong>