On Sundays my abode virtually shifts
to a noiseless place. A haven
in heaven.
Early morning my brass bolstered
red gate displays variegated items,
Newspapers shoved between them
milk sachet in a suspended bag.
I engage in solving sudoku and crossword
puzzle, hunger creates a commotion,
My criminal tastebuds do not brook
unpalatable food, demand the best
taken out of stove.
if salt, Karam, go astray the tongue
mercilessly denies permission
forces a revision, heartless autocrat,
Washing the vessels, drying them out
in the sun, a diabolical practice I do,
embroils me.
In the unmanned house, I am
the only woman running errands
heaving and mumbling
In the midst, I question,
why do Sundays come
week after week?
Meenas Poems 