SETTLE

Lost, in the search for his beloved in O Henry's character of "The shadowed room"

the folded waters of the sea before me, the unruffled stack of white plastic chairs tug my attention

cheeks and fingers cool with the gulf air remind of rumbles in my stomach,

hot pumpkin soup in the flask ready to silence internal growls

my yellow pen moves fast to jot my scattered thoughts

jumpy that the receding waves of the dusk may swallow

less tensed though, than the global economies of the tariffs flung

 

the story's character unequipped to trace her in London's streets

I, unprepared to pattern my sporadic ideas

the world puzzled at the new double digits to be coughed at ports

noises in the belly impatient to wait further

the beloved dies, the hero never knows, tired flops on the bed

my ideas settle on the white plain paper, my temporary bookmark

phone calls and negotiations commence between nations

my stomach silent, pacified with the taste of the soup

each do find their own solace.

HIS PRESENCE

His mustard-coloured diary
wrinkled pages, some old receipts
mums dry-clean expenditure
his disliked spending
milk, groceries, vegetables, holidays
a glance now shows price rise

his post breakfast schedule
to jot down monthly expenses
or match to past months
or many a time to previous years amounts
an easy pastime post-retirement
then, a sermon on inflation and
his well-managedlife on savings
pension not applicable
in his private job

the cupboard's corner now imitates the dairy's outline.

The pharmacy's big blue Nivea moisturiser
a bottle permanent on his side table in his last years
his dry skin constantly hungry for the lotion
every drop a temporary relief to his flaky skin
he would agree to no other lotion
my dad a long contributor to Nivea's sales
a gene both daughters have
the same dark blue bottle,

a permanent fixture in our cosmetic space.

Spicy pickles and chutneys,
his all-time must at every meal
bottles replenished by my mum's
tasty mango and gooseberry pickles
his taste buds relished them

a morsel for me from his hand
a time I looked forward to
at mealtimes

those jars and bottles long for his touch
just like the glow on mum's face
and me for that one warm morsel.

Few objects pale to define him
he left us three years before

I see him all around
in objects touched and untouched
as it was also, he, who taught me
what an object is.