She was not wearing red
at that point of time when we met.
He had been listening
to the meanings, colors denote
and watching for a red rose
that he might pluck from neighbor’s patch.
He was wearing blue dreams,-
faded and could be taken
as his good old denim.
He ruffled his hair, adjusted;
the way a lover
was supposed to look,- in love, lost.
She wasn’t waiting for him.
The boy was barely in his teen.
The red bus stopped, took her
for a ride according to ticket.
The boy waited for the day next.
He would be there, dawdling in dream.
=© 2009 - All Rights Reserved Kushal Poddar