I find petite figures on the wall.
Some are modern art.
Few resemble dance postures.
I watch them for a while,
as they waltz merrily.
with the breeze
.
They look pale and fragile.
Each one is distinct.
Intensive in most places.
Clothed in light beige,
the attire lacks sheen.
torn in places.
Around the light fixtures
and in the intersections
I see them suspended.
In haste strike them
with the vacuum cleaner.
The best of them go inside.
Settle exhausted.
unaware of the hanging garden
of Babylon right over my head.
Meenas Poems 