Mirage.

roving.

There's a tree right outside our building,
In November it looks like
A skeleton
I forgot to lock in my closest.
In the arid 9th month,
it has dusty green leaves.
But, I am waiting for March.
When this city thinks,
It's okay to behave like,
Autumn isn't late by
Four months.
And, it transforms from
green to sick branches
to velvety lavender,
And i wonder how the
tree breathes without its
foliage.
I have also been
noticing a lot of
vehicles lately.
The metro zooms
in and out, and
faces pass me by,
On foot,
On bikes,
In cars.
Time passes by
In airplanes.
And, I wonder if I
am not looking at
means of transportation,
But searching for
Mobility
Because the dust in the
air here is too heavy
And immobile.
Do I miss the shift in
Cities and streets and
Houses and living
Out of cardboard boxes,
And soup containers
That had my favorite
Curry hidden in the last
Rack of the fridge,
To keep it away from
The prying eyes,
I guess I was never
The one to share,
Not even as a kid.
And,
roving seems
Impossible nowadays when
You're stuck in a time warp
And in airports,
Flying back and forth
Between homesickness
And stifling invasion of
Privacy.
I guess, freedom and
Mobility have nothing
In common apart from
Impermanence.