Friday, September 23, 2011

Hair, there

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
Over a roti
She has prepared

The worker is wise
To show no surprise
Or despair

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

It is his
That makes her
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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