That tired soul

I start from work,

For home,

At six thirty,

In the evening.

I’d be home,

Typically,

By eight, in the evening.

I start from work,

A little early,

Today.

I take a shared cab,

Auto, we call it,

It’s an eight seater,

Hoodless,

Winger,

Or its variant.

I enter the cab,

That eight seater,

To see it’s full.

But there’s some space,

Driver tells me,

So I enter.

After a few stops,

Some drop by,

I get enough space.

Cab reaches its last stop,

I step down,

I walk across the traffic signal,

With a traffic ready to kill,

To reach home early.

I am not in a hurry,

So I wait,

For my turn.

I walk,

So I get my turn,

Quite easily.

But,

As it takes,

It takes time,

Till I get one.

But I do,

So I walk,

And reach,

The next bus stop,

And wait.

I have,

A piercing,

Bowing, shoulder ache.

From my chest,

Piercing through my shoulder,

And my arm.

So I wait,

For a bus with space.

I get a bus,

With space enough,

For me to find,

Some space,

To place,

My bag,

And my back,

And the back,

Of my hand.

The bus reaches its last stop,

I step down.

My house is away,

From the last bus stop,

Of the bus,

I just talked,

By a Kilometer,

And a quarter.

So I walk,

Because,

The shared cab,

The eight seater,

Will adjust twelve.

So I walk,

Like everyday,

With a shoulder ache,

So I walk,

Slowly,

But I walk,

Like everyday.

I look at my phone,

Not to talk,

But to check the time,

It says seven: forty eight,

I am half a kilometre,

Away,

From my place,

An apartment.

I get a poem in my mind,

No way can I complete,

Before eight,

In the evening,

I think.

I might just begin writing,

I think,

Before eight,

In the evening,

If I rush.

But I got,

A shoulder ache,

Starting from my chest,

And piercing through my shoulder,

Right across my arm.

So I walk,

But I don’t rush,

I reach the block,

I walk through its pathway,

Climb up the stairs,

Unlock the doors,

I enter my apartment.

I shut my door,

I check my phone,

Not to talk,

But for time,

It’s seven: forty,

In the evening.

How is it so?

I actually saw,

Something like seven: twenty eight,

Or seven: eighteen,

In the evening,

But this tired soul,

Had lost before playing,

It read seven: forty eight,

In the evening,

Even though,

It wasn’t.

I tell myself,

I can finish this poem,

If I rush,

Before Eight,

In this evening.

I won’t rush,

I don’t want to,

I change my clothes,

Hit the loo,

Lighten up,

I check my second phone,

Not to talk,

But for its internet connection,

It’s my internet hardware,

Too.

I set up my second phone,

As a Wi-Fi hot spot,

Turn my computer on,

It automatically connects,

To the Wi-Fi hot spot,

And I check my phone again,

It tells me it’s seven: forty six,

In the evening.

If I hog my keyboard,

Rush my thoughts,

I can still complete the poem,

By eight,

In the evening.

So I run the software,

I use,

To write,

And, I write.

And then,

I check my phone,

For it,

Is ringing,

A friend is calling,

Wanting to talk.

So I talk,

I talk and talk and talk,

To froth,

And to flock,

On our lives,

And our times.

I lost,

Because I am late

Way too late,

Was too late,

And will always be.

There was never,

Ever a way,

To finish this poem before eight,

In the evening.

It is,

After all,

Mine,

And I,

And I alone,

Get to choose when I want to end it.