Do you find that it tugs you just there?
The cavity below the ribs, a throbbing hole
Every evening as dusk falls and then, a few minutes after,
The azaan goes up.
Plaintive, my neighbourhood muezzin!
His voice soars and dips, and I soar and fall in sympathy.
A grief grips me sometimes, a sadness, a trembling –
Call it existential angst.
A few brief minutes and he trails away,
And I return, blindly, to my computer screen.