ManicWorld Magazine

“The day of joy
The day is bright
It’s bright and fair
Oh, happy day!”

adjacent to my open window on a monday morning 
are the echoes of the innocent voices 
of a tomorrow some ears may not be a part of
but the tongue has to pray and affirm
I pull God out of my throat and water 
out of the kettle’s mouth 
to cleanse my eyes of the darkness
in my sleep and wash the lethargy 
off my limbs  I spread my wishes 
on the mat to kneel on
and fold them into silence after the last word
outside the door is God’s anonymity 
in the rain eroding yesterday’s footprints 
and the sunlight clearing the road
of obstacles before the blind stumble
to step out is to bet on survival—
some pockets return full
some return with a vacuum 
for another day to fly into like dust
till a commuter heads home after 
a long day’s work some leave 
their last footprints on the sands of time 
for mourning and memories to cater to
in the daytime hours is a portion of hope
to last a whole week—the wages 
of a mason mending the broken walls 
of a house against the flood 
that dissolves the shelter of the living 
like the gravels shield the bodies
of the deceased from the storms 
that ravaged their souls as sellers 
and buyers in the marketplace of life
fares are the only sources of hope
for hawkers and roadside food vendors—
mothers whose children sing of a happy day
with friends whose uniforms are cut 
from a different cotton