The Shoveller

Written by Mohd ‘ian’ Ayan

Illustrated by Chirag Taneja

Edited by Mehul Shah

I taint it with coffee.

Noggin logged in to this bogged down fog;

spill it over, dip, dunk and dive,

mighty was I, ellipsed, reigning, more than alive.

I used to run into the wonders of a freed conscience

with a smirk, a 9mm, a nasty cat, and a bombshell through the wooden fence.

Brain now drained of this reigning; dead like young Montague.

I paint it with spirit.

A 1000cc racing down asphalt, engine screaming,

a child dreams, this man riding, he dreams of dreaming.

Mulberry thoughts, the thoughts of his grandmother's

vineyard, now all but desolate, desolate unlike the other's

the only grave with roses, tears, earthly array.

the kicked kickstand kicked the dust up; a blinded sun's ray

Betrays the dust and desolation witnessed through eyes bloodshot,

of rot, malice, chalice of silver, the curse of Cartagena.

Lest Jack be noble Jack be ash, lest cries be of power, it be perchance Nina.

This young rider, once esprit now guzzled with spirit,

fuddled head, bemuddled liver, livery, leathery, redundancy of this writ.

The rusty gate creaks, the shoveller eyes now towards him

They don't exchange greetings, they both know greetings are to whim.

He pulls out his own, a greenhorn, shiny metal, varnished wood

a good ne'er-do-good Robin hood, he now stands where once He stood,

Digs, digs, digs, digs, digs, digs, strikes now wood.

His breath uneven, breast heaving, heaves he the dirt away.

Reaches a hand in, pulls up a woman, warm smile, another ray

except now gentler, leaves greener still

"You came early! I could've waited till-"

"Walk me home, Ma?"

Hands held, the wind runs like he once in her vineyard.

Cities, roads, meters, home but a mile.

And now they cross, the rusty threshold now longer so

the shoveller's wrinkly mug now heavenly aglow.

Y'know...

And so they walk home.