Shoot it if it rhymes

Single File 

How thick is your solitude? 

Can it be cut with a butter-knife? 

Would a pebble falling on it bounce back, or make a dent? 

Would it soak in the rain, like a weed would soak in the sea? 

Would it let the breeze through, or hoard it for a rainy day? 

Would it fill your halls like a haiku gone hoary, 

or rustle in the corners with the naphthalene fumes
and the leftover monsoon breath? 

Would its echo stain the edges of your coffee-mugs, 

would its footprints pepper your rugs? 

Would your solitude mumble? Stutter?
If it sings, would it be a tenor or a baritone? 

Is it a soufflé, light and feathery, or a quiche, crusty and crisp?
Would it ever snap like the edge of a benne dosa? 

As a blanket, would it quell like wool or lull like satin? 

Would it swell and shrink like the tide,
or wax and wane like the moon on your bedroom window-pane? 

Would it ever float out to me on a sparrow’s wings?