I’m hardly yours Anil.

It was 10 p.m and

your flannel-checked shirt like

a technicolor chessboard revealed

thick curled strands of hair,

and glimmering below was

gram-coloured

sweat-shaded

chest.

It was 10. 02. when

I had vowed to pluck every

plastic button out with my bare teeth,

until I reached the golden buckle

of your belt.

It was 10.08 and my gums weak,

I had cheated, and used two fingers

to yank out the last of the buttons.

10.10 and I had opened the fly

of your stitched pants, with the smell

of recent tailoring,

By 10.12, my hands floundering,

I could see the stray strands

of your moustache quivering

with heavy breath.

At 10.14 and some negligible

seconds later, before the mobile

vibrated,

before you zipped up,

your wife had a craving for chaat,

and your kids, cake fudge,

and a drive to the new airport.

I’m hardly yours Anil.

(Finally wrote.)