You know I have never quite realized
How you can contemplate Joyce's Ulysses?
Or even the fact
That you have two different names
For every human you know
How is it that it is always?
A little too much sugar in my coffee
That all the poems that you write
End in question marks?
And that you never write a poem on me?
I have never figured how carefree you sleep
Even when you have to lecture
Two hundred people next day?
How did you know?
That the only Tolstoy book
I never completed was Anna Karenina
cos' it was so friggin’ like me
And how you shall
Never keep any photographs
Of your childhood in Siliguri
Or that Salinger book.
Or that why you can never love me
Like I do... Just like that
I call her Anna.
She is psychedelic pop
The happiness of
All Beatles songs put together
She is a mid-week holiday
She is the smell of winter evenings
And old leaves in open playgrounds
She is Karenina to my Vronsky
She is an afternoon nap
on a freshly cleaned bed-sheet and a happy dream.
She is an oaf who makes me smile
And yet she is ‘I shall pack your bags’.
She is like my first kiss.
But I cannot hold her back
Like Siliguri or 'catcher in the rye'
As I cannot love things or people
I can just write about them
And she is the metaphor of the story
Of my life
Though someday I shall
Put her into words
... Just like that
(And why do you always
Sweeten my coffee like