Here rests an old friend in peace
that often eluded him.
Though he was on a short lease-
Alas! It was further trimmed.
He lived a colourful prime
of guzzling beers and ghazals.
Perhaps aware of less time
with a mind full of puzzles.
He is wheeled on a gurney.
Thus begins his next journey.
A narrow wooden swing went swish and swish.
The big open windows let in the breeze.
Here, I never had to demand a wish.
Nor had to act or behave to appease.
My grandparents loved to fuss over me.
I would sleep or pretend to be asleep.
This old place that would always let me be
where my ancestral roots run sweet and deep.
The kitchen was filled with jars of pickle
where we gossiped and spiced up tales for fun.
My grand mom ruffled my hair to tickle.
Just to see that smile I went there often.
The house is closed now, not those memories.
I am still pampered by their melodies
The queen ant sits on her throne-
lays millions of tiny eggs.
Beside her idles the drone.
Soldiers march on tireless legs.
For miles some forage for food,
and bring back the daily bread.
But sometimes they rise and feud
and seem an army of red.
But ants toil without bondage.
They change their roles as they age.
The first cloth I wore was a white lungi
wrapped around me as if I would escape.
Then came the colourful shorts quite funky
with steel zips or buttons of every shape.
Then wore the school uniform of long pants-
I so disliked for they made me look short.
For long I was convinced it was a prank,
and waited each summer to wear my shorts.
Then in my teens I wore cargos and jeans.
And those formal trousers at my worksite.
But soon I will shrink back to frugal means
when fashion and trends with my taste collide.
The dress rehearsals in life will go on.
I am waiting to put my shorts back on.
Old man walks down the staircase-
slowly leaning on his stick.
Gone are the suits and briefcase.
Just music to make him tick.
He sees everyone alike.
Did they always look like this?
Yet just a few he once liked.
Probably something he missed.
O! Old boy it is just fine.
Sit back- have a glass of wine.
On an empty street at dawn.
When not a soul is around.
I hear a shriek of a horn
as if some wild hounds abound.
The car speeds breaking all reds.
Daily run, just habitual.
Blaring music, no guilt shreds.
Mindless honking a ritual.
Hello mister motorman.
Do not limit my life span.
Red lattoo with strings around,
gives it a twist when let loose.
Whirring with freedom abounds
not just children are amused.
Sometimes it tickles your palm,
and from hand to hand it hops.
Sometimes it spins down your arm,
and battles with other tops.
O! Those antics, gymnastics
while dancing on its axis.
