Face Off, a poem,

Face Off

I am tired, my friends too.

Shall we stop the clock,

the writing fool his dance,

move to the Moon

and beyond, sing for supper

in some indigenous tongue

that will disappear

from the planet’s face?

Must be the only rule

for this rueful sojourn:

we will not know

if our children choose

to tread on our bones,

or erect them into columns

and arches. For the rest,

spared of progeny, there is

no guilt or obligation. Just

finish tasks in the planner,

and go off radar, absent

from view on Facebook.

            Indran Amirthanayagam, April 4, 2013  c) 3013 Indran Amirthanayagam