Day 1

On those many special days
when wild flowers are burdened with
milk and 
the dad keeps his palm canopying his 
love's restive eyelids, burdened with many 
montages and silent in the light of stagnant airs loud with the 
silent protests blocking her vistas of fuchsia 
sunshine when she tied her hair firmly behind in a nice
sweet tail and trusted her father's care to protect from the 
slightly tormenting white sunshine
that came in relentlessly 
though she sought a refuge 
yet they barged in like waves of
hungry
leeches
that suckered someone down the 
mofussil roads whose dad merely believed
she herself could save
herself.

On those many special days, 
when the commonstreetbegger whose bare chest barely has anything but a
tatteredjacket puts the upperleft button
in the lowerright
buttonhole and thinks he would safely save
himself from the  
whatever causes the funguys to shriek in contorted faces as to the cause of clogged streets
and sparse chills,
you return home early and safe.