(सप्ताहांत वर्षा के)
Behold! How your morning is measured
by a thousand minutes to a bed tethered
by scratched skin and a reluctant shaver
whose very stare can blunt a razor
or strong coffee and small favours
over nonsense words like mankyshepard.
Until past noon when curtains rain,
and someone falls asleep again
and someone else when no-one looks
decides to open up his books
until she rouses, throws a hook,
and paper tears a thin refrain.
Evening plays more sombre notes
with runny cheese and chortling throats
over drole films and half-time schmoozing
and games that end when he starts losing
from simple desserts of her choosing
until she tires of anecdotes.