The Library
In that
town's library
Where we
met years ago,
I again
stand, alone
Like that
day. And although
The door
chimes still sound
Every time
someone
Other than
you enters,
I know I am
undone.
The crone,
older now, sits
Absorbed.
Looking upward
From the
lenders' ledger,
Flapping up
like a bird
Every time
strangers
Nudge her
library's quiet.
But now it
is not us
Responsible
for the riot.
The
literature wing
Today has
nothing we
Loved in
our times, poets
Who do not
rhyme sit free
On the
wooden shelves
Across
which we first saw
One another
searching -
You for
Keats, I for Shaw.
Outside,
the cafe serves
Scones too.
You'd be pleased
To know our
Mister Singh
Asked about
you. He's eased
Into his
calm eighties
Quite
unbelievable, no?
Well, he's
senile, yet has
Asked me to
say "Hello."
Our
Gulmohur's shade being
A delight
as ever,
Now hosts
young couples who
Believe in
forever.
They are
too young to know
What I
haven't expressed -
The loss of
the love I
Once
profoundly possessed.
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