My Rice-Knitted Green Sweater

I do not really have the patience
for time. It trickles down my chest
like small white capsules of rice
on green woolly paddies of green;
collectively, reminding me of my
ineptitude in the commoner
things of life. It spills green on
the marble counter of my kitchen,
seeping under my half drunk
transparent glass of milk.


I am intolerant of time and let
it run out, like a balloon letting
out heaves of undesirable sighs.
"maybe time knows more about your
destiny than you do, " I eavesdropped
on a faceless man in my dream once.
He was telling someone with black
hair and a dye job, which looked to
me from where I was, a night with
strands of moon beams appearing
and disappearing behind flitting
shadows and a striped emerald shed.


My digital clock is dark. With no
moon beams or green dyes or red
carcinogenous reflections to bounce
off my eyes. Maybe it is mad.
My stomach growls inconsolably.
There is a stranger on my lawn.
He has been lying there
for a while now. I tried to rouse
him but only succeeded in
exhausting me to a near-still stop.


People call me mad too, for wearing my
green sweater in summer. But I do.
I must, for I am naked without it.
Invisible. Transparent to all those
other people walking through me.


I wish I could turn back time some
days but I only make it run faster.
A runny nose spilling on dry
flaky skin. I think I will have to
wear my sweater forever. Not
because I detest anonymity; far
from it, because, in a land of
elder statesmen, the masses, deposed,
are running low on sweaters, hope
and themselves. So in my act of
defiance, I , with my rice, crusted green
sweater upon me, endure time,
like many more unseen doing the same.