frame
eraser
envelopes

Hari B Khalsa

If the items never make their way
to a bag, the car, down the street 

to the blue-walled office. If there is no
will to fulfill the promise of the pink 

sticky note curled on the desk; no pencils
on Thursday, staples or paper on Friday. 

If we all phase out of bed, clock whirling,
electricity blown, a speckled egg, butter, 

clotted cream melting in the fridge. If
out of the door, fingers grasp thick air, 

we breast stroke to work—it wouldn't
be a surprise to see on the other side

of the street the sweet breath of kindness
on its knees, blindfolded and waiting.