Four Sunday Poems
Cheat Days / Abhishek Anicca
I eat everything from Monday to Friday, even Thursday which makes me bloated.
There is so much on my plate, and it hardly matters that I am already full.
A few pounds make no difference, I do not measure the load I carry.
I am so full, I am so empty, I almost die searching for a prayer.
Never a day off / Abhishek Anicca
we read horoscopes
of people we weren't taking to
Was there any chance of them finding love?
Parting notes / Abhishek Anicca
After all this is over, we will return to our ordinary, daily lives, you and me
You, to your loving partner, important work, routine
Me, to my one room loneliness, projecting life on a screen
You, with your waiting for a Sunday to be at home
Me, agitated, always finding an excuse to not be alone
You, setting boundaries in your relationships, searching for sanctity
Me, melting away into the next person who offers hope, always guilty
Still, we will find something that ties us
together every day, in ways unsaid, unseen
Spotless / Abhishek Anicca
Sundays without the sun are
a half written Urdu couplet
on a napkin at a wedding
you wore a sherwani to
What were those words?
Only the dry cleaner knows
Image Description: Sunday in the Park by George Seurat