Now noon,
A weary worker
At a construction site
Retires his tools for a bite
Opens a dabba
Packed by his wife
And finds to his delight
The sign
Of a tiny,
Most miniscule strand
Of pubic hair
A line
Lain down
In an elliptical
Accident
Over a roti
She has prepared
The worker is wise
To show no surprise
Or despair
Women
With needs
No doubt can seek
Many an illicit way
To slake
And satisfy
Their lust
By light of day
Why would she slave
Over a stove
And make rotis
Instead of love
Unless
It is his
Memory
That makes her
Quiver
And sweat
As if in fever
When between
One roti and another
She squeezes the belan
With vigour
Into her underwear
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