He is not with me tonight.
Fifteen minutes away, and she
is not with him, yet he is not
with me tonight.
This is his night to be
alone. Two or three with her;
the same with me, and how
can I object to him sitting
alone, one night per week?
He stays home, plays the guitar,
cooks dinner, pets the calico cat.
He will call me, and her. Tomorrow
is my night, but tonight
he would rather be alone.
I would rather he were with her.
I would rather that she rested in
his arms, that he kissed her
gently, that she smiled with the
pleasure of his company,
laughed at his jokes.
I would rather that their sweaty
bodies lay entangled, a sweet
exhaustion heavy in their limbs.
He is wasted on the cat.
*****
M.A. Mohanraj
February 24, 1998