I sink into the couch.
You open the windows,
Letting the sheer curtains go
Dragging along the carpet.
We listen to them sway
From windowsill to chair,
Taking sips of peach tea
And leftover beer, watching
The room inhale
The afternoon
And release
It again. This
Is what they must have done
During the outages: sat
By open windows and doors,
Or on roofs, in courtyards,
Pulling stools and blankets
Beside grass, on cold stone
By the stairs, taking long
Gulps of water, sweet lassi
From steel cups, before
Sweeping an old cloth
Around the forehead
And behind the neck,
Wiping beads of sweat
Before they spill,
Sitting and sifting
Through a heap
Of red lentils, or cutting
Okra on aged silver,
Hearing the faint noise
Of rickshaws
And far-off voices
Until the dust of sun
Settled
Into smoke of night.
