Your wife’s a fantasy,
You’re a ‘loser’ in the sense
Only a loser will define you any other way.
You’re busy telling me about the Concept of ‘O’:
And this, a theory, is a thing I have heard before.
She told me once you had a soul,
But that you were never meant to know
To where for raw comfort in the truest essence
Her wet mechanisms go. And I was only a stranger
On a site; social networking.
“Right” you say, “now let us go:
Cannot afford to be late for the second half of the show”.
The chaotic monotone of the throngs
To tea have gathered by. “There’s more time!”
And you check the watch; a squinted eye.
“He’s the lousiest thing” she says
“And I have told him as much”
And as you walk with your weight on a side
You give birth to thoughts as such.
Perhaps, when you finally die you will be missed.
“Mr. Athula!” you point out at a faraway Fine Arts don
And the don walks so far away:
Out of a side door he moves out of sight.
“Wash my hands and come!” you get up, like a swan on flight.
6.25 pm, Saturday’s eve.