My Red Checkered Skirt
Awakening to the stream of steady sunlight,
Filtering past my desuetude ragged morning.
Eyes squeezed shit in overwhelming demurral,
Against the hapless sun dazzling in glory.
Grumbling and mumbling, I stretch,
The tired muscles screaming in strain.
These uneventful Mondays, dreaded by all,
Was here like my demanding landlord,
Squeaking and squealing at my scant interest.
Dragging my sore feet across the hall,
I desired to don my red checkered skirt,
Pepping up my sleepy, weary, worn out self.
Dismissing my own concerns of the consequences,
Because this was my beloved and best loved skirt.
In the pursuit of a taxi, I leave my domain,
The checkered pleats fluttering in the cruel breeze.
They stare, as to who dares to sport a skirt,
Oh! I do, for this was my best loved skirt.
Boarding the train, accompanied by those lecherous leers,
I brave it all, waving away those peering concerns.
Did I dress wrong, a silent question pops up,
That can’t be true, I strongly reaffirm.
Taking the meagre sidewalk to my destination,
Trying to digest the glances, stares and inaudible mouthing.
I silently curse under my breath, glaring,
Hoping fervently, a sweet escape away from this torment,
Behind my giant oak desk, I wish to cower.
Rushing up in staircase, high heeled and short skirted,
I dart to my blissful hiding, vowing to stay put.
Dreading lunch time, those cunning sly ogles,
Be it men or women, this had clearly no discrimination.
Tick tock tick tock, moved the lazy clock ever so slowly,
Smirking at my anticipation to elude,
Leisurely, it struck five, slipping back into hibernation.
My heart beat rose and sank at the very thought,
Of the ordeal and sick glances, once again.
Hesitantly, taking a cab, all the way back home,
For one hungry leer was preferred over far too many.
Joy washing over my tired mind, thanking god,
I hastily opened my door and rushing inside.
Undoing my skirt and those thousand hungry glances,
Smiling at the red checks and back at my reflection.
Sniggering at my silly, my oh so silly self,
I faintly realize, it was me to be blamed,
For my red checkered skirt was naïve and innocent.
- Ananth. M