WISH GRANTED

A young man born in anonymity.
Not too clever,
a degree from a not-so-famous college.
Modest circumstances,
shared accommodation,
in a dodgy part of the city.

He doesn't complain,
never had big dreams, ever.
Yet, he fancies something:
some woman,
young or older—it doesn’t matter,
pursuing him for love.

Just before going out each morning,
before running to get behind the counter,
he spends a few seconds
in front of the mirror.
He asks himself if he looks like the sort
any woman might fancy falling in love with.
The mirror says “no,”
or at best, a dubious “yes,”
depending on the weight of his purse.

Days go by,
night comes in silence.
His dream lives in his dreams.
He doesn't feel dejected,
never complains.

When one doesn't have a flashy life,
women don’t come calling.
It’s all good in his lasting silence.

But then the cloudburst happened.
He was engrossed in spray-painting a wall.
Illegal, vandalism—whatever you call it,
it was his only self-expression.

But on that night, “hey you,”
cut through the dense fog—
the voice of a female cop.

He started running blindly.
His breath caught in his throat,
his heart pounded,
sweat poured from every pore—
not in the excitement of love,
but in a frantic attempt
to give the slip to the she-cop.

Don’t they say—
be careful what you wish for?

He wished he was pursued by a woman.
Now he is running for his freedom,
being chased by a blonde,
a striking beauty,
in uniform.

Please, my learned friends,
don’t mistake this for the nightmare
you might—or might not—have seen,
where the missus chases you
for not doing enough.