No More An Express Train

Folding the sheets, pillow cases,
without creases, starching the handwoven 
sarees, take my life out.

I recall the days when I slogged 
the whole day caring  the children,
running in directions  tirelessly.

Of recent, even a slight exertion causes 
an exhaustion. I heave  hard  like 
an old puffing train run on steam,

Perspiring  profuse, I  hear a feeble 
whistle from my nostrils akin to the 
rickety  old train’s blowing.

 I, like the train, slow down
 when I am about to reach
 the destination  at 9 in the night

the day draws to a close ,
smoke and steam diffuse, My eyes 
close as slumber  overwhelms.