the drive to pabhoi

lush green fields, low pale smoke

deep green trees behind

the sky reflected in the ditches all full

and a flight of egrets white

six evenings in your city

1.

six pigeons silhouetted

on the parapet in a row

flanked at the end

by a very black crow

2.

in a starched cover that’s yellowed with age

the pillow is lumpy, an old spare for guests

the sheets too, though clean, smell of mothballs

but at least for tonight i have a bed

3.

i often suddenly remember whatever it was

that i was looking up, when i’m almost at the page

i believed that i’d forgotten what you looked like

but waiting here, now, i clearly see your face

4.

he hammers loose the metal plates

from the pillars, now solid concrete

he swings his arm in a loose arc and

finds the rhythm of my heartbeat

5.

visiting the city after years, your city

it seems both familiar, and distant

the names of the stops are like long lost possessions

unearthed at the back of the last drawer of the closet

6.

the train tears my heart away

from your city once again, while my mind is cast

upon things that can’t be undone or unmade

like love lost and times past

this gift, unasked for

maybe it is a curse

everything we witness changes us

for better or for worse

everyone we meet

everyone that we con into loving us

every path that we walk

every dog

every street

do you?

i met a famous writer

who’d travelled far and wide

and was acclaimed to have access

to the depths of his soul’s insides

well known for sensitive poetry

much loved for wise, perceptive prose

and said to have felt things and thought thoughts

that in mere mortals never arose

and while we talked i happened to ask him

what his most common thoughts were

five, he replied: maybe i shouldn’t

maybe i should, write to her

what does she feel when she thinks of me

does she ever think of me, my dear

and what if i was to never write again

would anyone even care