Rolling Luck
The marbles roll
on a patch of dirt–
colored transparencies
shine in the afternoon sun.
She watches carefully;
her big brown eyes
roll with the little marbles
deft fingers on small brown hands
shoot each marble toward the hole
in the center of a circle–
there is hope
of winning
whereas
in the square room
that sits unevenly
under a metal roof—her home
built to stand
but sure to fall
under the monsoon rain dance–
one can only lose,
without a chance.
© Neetu Malik
Some of Neetu’s Books
-
I drop pebbles slowly
watch them fall
in a shallow stream -
she reaches out
touches fog
she had hoped
for the sun -
Walk me through
your caveshow me the petroglyphs
the stories
you have laboriously pecked on the walls
with your hammer stone,
carved in the light of a lantern
where shadows cast gloom. -
I am but dust
a grain of sand
blowing whichever way
the wind blows
in the universe -
You were the guest at my table picking on the corners of the table cloth, fingers nervously folding and unfolding mutilated pride.
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