The roils of smoke

 I sit here

At a nondescript coffee shop

Enjoying the sweet, firey smell

of second hand smoke

 

No, I don't smoke

And the couple of times I tried

(Never in the intention of taking up smoking,

or even in the intention of resorting to it occasionally, 

but in the interest of experiementation

as I often do new things)

it did not smell so sweet

Maybe I did not have the right brand

Whatever

It did nothing for me

So it does not attract me in the least

But now as I sit here

Watching the back of a young man's head

And the whole back, for that matter

Behind which

Rise the tendrils of smoke

blue-gray-purple-white-shining silver

I see their roiling shapes

coiling, becoming solid, round, oval

And through them

The view on the other side

Acquires a mysterious tint

 As if

They were half there

And half not there

Like something out of a fairy tale

Of which there are mere glimpses

I see the whole world

Colored

In that mystical fashion

And then the smoke disperses

As if choreographed

And wild, at the same time

Some of it thinning into

Sold shapes

Some of it dissipating into 

Ever more transparent sheets

And all of a sudden, 

It's disappeared

Like magic air 

That was there just now

And is gone in an instant

Like vapors of a magic potion

Or the intoxicating fumes 

Of a visible spell

And just this sight

Is enough

to entice me

I want you to be sensitive

 When I have a child, 

I want her to be sensitive

To beauty, you had said

And I was aghast

Because it never occured to me

To wish that for my child

And isn't that the antithesis of

Whatever we are working towards?

A just and equal society?

I want my child 

To ignore beauty

To make friends

Without looking at people's face

And yet when I thought about it

I realised

I just meant

Beauty in people

I want my child

To be open and compassionate

To everyone

But at the same time, 

Yes, be sensitive to beauty

In nature

In places, in living beings

In sounds, in music, 

In art, in designs

Maybe I would not have 

Put it in those words

Maybe it was not as important 

To me as it seems to you

And yet, yes, I would want my child

To appreciate all these things

To live a full and rich life

By appreciating not just 

Such beauty

But also knowledge, history, 

Stories, creation, compassion

Yes, compassion

For a long time I had 

Deliberated on what you said

Wondering whether that is what

I want for my child

Or the opposite of it

Only to realise that

it is not necessarily what I think about

When I think of what I wish you to be

Instead, I have other priorities

I want you to be

Compassionate

Instead of privileged slob

Entitled brat

I want you to be sensitive

To pain

I want you to be sensitive 

To everyone's individual stories

and situations

I want you to not live 

In your own bubble

So that you can do

What you are able to do

For the people around you

I don't expect you to save the world

No one can do that

But I wish you become

The kind of person

Who wants to try

And after that, 

Yes, I want you to be sensitive

To beauty and 

art and music and poetry

So that you can live

A rich and full life

For happiness, my dear

Is not for the compassionate

The vulgarity of love

 She

Has a life

That I don't wish upon anyone

Caring for two

Who will never be able to 

Care for themselves

And now

To watch a third

Go down the road to 

Possible ruin

And nothing she 

Or anyone can do

No, not a life that  

I would wish upon any one

And yet she lives it

With such dignity

And fortitude

Every day

I never had time to feed them 

With my own hands

She said

I just put the food in front of them

And they eat

Or they don't

And I was struck

By the memory

Of how I feed you

Sometimes singing, 

Sometimes making faces

Sometimes switching dishes

Scattering grains on your plate

Enticing you with novelties

Waiting, always, waiting

For long minutes after everyone is gone

Just so that you would eat

An extra bite

I was struck by the memory

And the question

Of what she 

And others like her

Might think

Of a life like mine

Where I have all the luxury

To feed my baby

Yes, what a great luxury it is

Only now I realise

And I was struck by

The vulgarity

Of such a display of love

To anyone

Who doesn't have it

And I wonder

At this love of mine

At whether you should get it

When so many suffer

Whether I should 

Be so happy in your company

When so many don't have

What I have

And yet, 

My primary duty

Is to you

And only to you

Who I feed with such love

Time and again every day

And what a useless comparison that is

Neither here nor there

Which does nothing but

Make me depressed

Unwanted deluge

I don't want to start my day

By processing bitterness, 

Feeling dirty, unclean, and violated

But in my mind,

He is there with me, 

Unbidden,

Grinning that simpering grin

Maybe he isn't in reality

Maybe he never thinks about it

But then, in my mind 

I am looking at me 

Through his eyes 

All over time

A used thing

A pitiable thing

A violated thing 

A thing which has no agency

A thing taken advantage of

A thing trampled

A thing that you can do anything with 

A thing crowed upon

A thing to be caged

A thing to posess

Food for my soul

When I think of you

I think of how

I would rather not meet you

Because it is too much

For my soul

And instead

Drown in whatever

You have strewn around

Unthinkingly