April is the cruellest month,
Or not so cruel — depends, really, on how you view it:
The flesh you have to bare at the neckline
And midriff, the navels that flirt self-consciously
And the hip-tight, explosive stuff at the bottom —
It is New Year, what the hell; now, don’t start
Writing about it.
I am an active participant of a
Value Added consumerism. Watching the
Underpaid, routeless, clue-seeking cashier
Pass the produce from basket to counter.
She’s the seasonal object of all seasonal desire:
Avoiding my eyes on the fast lane.
Then comes December:
The cashier counter in a chainstore
Of a flakelessly fake Sri Lankan Christmas:
Like transvestite Santas, mass-produced
Red-white clothes, sock like caps —
Cos it doesn’t sell that way, no vacant parts or gaps.
Waiting for the season to pass:
The unproductive, unyielding season
Of a different class.