"Fight"

The time I learned the word "fight",
my fists punched the air
not knowing where to hit.

The time I learned the meaning
of the word "fight",
I was 10 years behind my dreams
and the world cautiously moved on.

The time I learned to "fight",
my eyes lost their dangerous glints
and my wrists were more limp.

Then I fought.
A jab released won't refrain the pain;
Drips of blood won't crawl back the wound.

A decade of my timeline became a scar.

There is a lesson to learn here.

At The Marketplace

He stood in front of her
and the apples, the Granny Smiths
arranged in rows, pointing at the ones
that have more luster in the ancient heat
and asked the question as old
as human civilization - How much?
She shooed the flies with a sway of her arms
and let him stood in front of the apples
like some kind of thought that didn't register.

My Time

My time is when the world hushes,
when the moon parades herself
over the roofs that keep quiet
for their inhabitants.
When the street occasionally grumbles
along with the sick cough of an old engine.

My time is when the neighborhood dogs bark
caution in the shadows, at some quivering of leaves
no breeze has touched on a windless night,
at the stretch of a street as empty as my pocket.

My time sneaks like a cockroach on the floor,
studying the corners,  looking for holes
in the wall to crawl in,
or cracks in the window to scamper out.

My time is a cooler temperature, sweats rarely pearl
on my brown skin.

My time. It has served me  - graying my hair,
making my skin more paper thin.  
I've married it for 10 years,
aware of the repercussions, the sleeplessness,
the back and forth steps in the living room and kitchen.

It's a servile partner, supportive of my habit
of twiddling a thought, committing it on the page
into lines and noisy lines  that don't mean much.