How did the thick flat
nudging the palace museum
get there? It’s too heavy to be lifted,
let alone carted off.
The Art Diaspora Collective
had early claimed it.
Tagged in white as obj#31,
the tiny letters, sign
and numbers shouldered by the rock
failed to withstand
these slight monsoon rains.
Never have I seen anyone sit on it,
or beside it…
with a cup of tea or a book
or with a comrade
locked into a chessboard gambit
or like a tourist, out of breath
from the fume-clogged air.
Last week, inexplicably, it lay on its side
in the gutter opposite Nag Pokhari
pointing north, away from town.
The next day it vanished. Sunk beneath the pond’s
moss and sludge? or as foundation
for a building that will
never fully rise? Or back to the hill-side quarry
where women with child
slam chisels into stone
till the granite breeds gravel.
Not art, but fate.
To start life far from home,
in bits and pieces