Pressing the Bell Twice

by Syeda Anika Mansour

I look at the tinted broken windows

of the upper floor

of the old shophouse,

contemplate what stories take shape

inside those moldy walls.

The black and white polka dot burkha on the woman

standing beside the sidewalk stuns me for a moment

and my rickshaw halts in a traffic jam.

An earsplitting horn of a local bus turns my attention

there, a face with a red bindi sitting by the window

lost in thought with dark circled eyes.

The beaver moon moved as my rickshaw began homewards

and I saw a new black dog on my street wandering around

but I missed Brownie and others,

a year ago they would follow me home,

wriggling their tail.

The bell yelps at me to press

begging me to remove its arthritis,

I slyly opened the door with my key

pretended to enter before

turning back to pressing it twice.