Monday, August 07, 2006

Sour Grapes

That day in the library,
From within the shelf of history,

Why were you peeping at me?
You thought I didn’t see you,
So you dropped the book in blue,
Some might have thought, by mistake
But I know that drop was fake.
While you picked it up, you dropped some more
So that I might just look at the floor,
And then I would offer my hand
To pick the books, or help you stand
And then perhaps we would talk.
Next I’d ask you for a walk
Towards the nearby coffee shop
Where discussions would flow on its roof-top
You went that further in your thought
While I was just flipping through some battles fought
I was simply engrossed in my book
That I could’ve missed your disappointed look
You gathered the books and cursed your star
And muttered “perhaps the grapes are sour.”