MOHIT MITRA Poet Free verse

Temperate Tom

I entered the room
the way one tests water—
without courage.
One shoe
still spared.

       The voices were already in motion,
       certain of their depth.
       A chair complained.
       Someone laughed—
       then checked themselves.

I stayed close to the edge,
counting breath,
allowing the cold
to decide
how far I might be trusted.

       Then a glance—
       not invitation.
       Only a look
       held
       a fraction longer
       than use requires.

                      Tom.

He stood where the window
had laid its pale shape
across the table,
not taking the light,
merely standing with it.
His smile was small,
patient,
as though it had learned
how not to hurry
those still arriving.

         What reached me first
         was his voice:
         pub-warm,
         casually classed—
         words smoothed by handling,
         bearing underneath
         a restrained grandeur,
         a star-spangled distance
         kept in check,
         history humming
         without insistence.

He spoke,
and the water steadied.

         No instruction.
         No hold.
         Only a pause—
         a palm
         beneath the back,
         lifting
         without asking.

                                             An uncoercive gravity.

         My shoulders loosened.
         That minor mercy.
         I smiled,
         not at cleverness,
         but at ease.

Later—
which still amuses me—
I caught myself wary of relapse:
most childhood habits long abandoned,
yet here I was again,
watching Tom & Jerry,
that faithful pursuit,
the snare eternally set,
never cruel.

          Afterward I read Tom Woody’s words
          and felt the same easing—
          as if the spirit recalls
          it can bend,
          and keep going.

By then
the water had risen.
I was speaking.
Listening.
My hands traced small circles
that did not disappear at once.

          This is how belonging happens:
          not the splash,
          but the moment
          you stop checking
          the floor.

So if there is blessing,
let it reach Tom
as his kindness reached me—
quiet,
temperate,
strong enough to hold

          until a stranger notices,
          almost by accident,
          that he has been standing
          in the water
          all along.

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