Chameleons, a poem by Abhinav Aradhi

 Chameleons

Mother knows best,

Because Mother lives a lot of lives.

She’s a bit of a chameleon, you see.

A chameleon on the kitchen wall.

 

She’s streaking out door,

In dress flowing freeform, like a waterfall,

And she’s cascading down the sidewalk,

Her heels caterwauling on the pavement.

 

Her purse swings from her shoulder,

Like a child at a playground,
Threatening to jump off at the peak,

Where the moon is laughing.

 

Past a car erratically shaking,

Past the houses with their eyes shut,

With her heels still caterwauling,

She’s in a sprinting sort of strut.

 

Into a curious alleyway,

Where degenerates go to die,

She flings open a door,

And wafts inside like insidious perfume.

 

There’s a silent stage,

And an audience full of men,

But all the men are chameleons,

Stuck up on the club wall.

 

They all wear masks of darkness,

And they are shrouded by their mutual shame.

As Mother struts right onto the stage,

Suddenly the men become monitors.

 

The dress hits the floor first,

Then the bra with plumage,

Laid bare on the floor, plucked and defeated.

Then the heels are tossed off, still caterwauling.

 

And she’s moving her hips,

Like the dream incarnate,

And all the chameleons are watching.

 

She thinks of him,

And what he’s probably doing.

Her feet move blindingly fast,

Like an addiction.

 

Outside, the moon is still laughing,

And the god of doorways is beaming.

 

If you walked into a nightclub now,

You’d see nothing, because of chameleons afraid of their reality.