A big, black couch was gathering dust.
The poet rusting hazel, eyes bleached,
lamps hushed.
She went through her lines, checked the baritone,
hoping he’d call, “Can I come?”
She fried the samosas, stuffed the bookshelf,
hoping she’d yelp, “Can I come?”
Termites jet-sprayed, plastic gloves stowed away,
ready to coo strawberry letters
in the squall and the rain.
Green fingers, beaming Sunday
is basil, chilli, parsley.
Bubble red cherries on her mind,
Feta is most divine.
A wall awaits painted roofs,
The table, a potted lamp.
The gossamer blue of Colin spray,
a spatter of diamonds and grace.
Snip, snip hiss of the nozzle
The black beast is shining again—
toasting, screaming, make hay.
Disclaimer: Comments posted here are the sole responsibility of the user and do not reflect the views of THE WEEK. Obscene or offensive remarks against any person, religion, community or nation are punishable under IT rules and may invite legal action.
