Someone left an eye on a seat.
The janitor finds it. The speech
ended hours ago. A little gale
stilled in the room swirls the papers.
The janitor sweeps and fills up his
black plastic sack with words and logics.
He takes the eye with him, gives it
to his son, albeit he doesn't like
the slimy mess. Late that night
the janitor's wife wipes and wears
the sight, gazes at the star
studded sky, see the superimposed
memory-mime of a motivational
speaker on a termite ridden stage.
--
The author of A White Cane For The Blind Lane' and 'How To Burn Memories Using a Pocket Torch' has ten books to his credit. He is a journalist, father of a four-year-old, illustrator, and an editor. His works have been translated into twelve languages and published across the globe.