Occupied

 

Some days your absence is less marked, and deep

is your presence all around, everywhere.

The old flamboyant tree across the street

comes into bloom. Checked cushions on the chair

still sag in spots where you'd rested your weight

as if you've not left. A pigeon coos outside

at the exact same pitch as on the days we'd played

at carrom. Not just the chair feels occupied.

We're low on stuff, whatever's in the cup

swirls hazy and bright. Something calls my name

like lightning on the sea. I instantly stop

no one's there - but the flashing sky feels the same.

Not just the chair and house feel occupied -

public roads too, whole cities and riversides.

Happy Mother's Day! - to all mothers here and elsewhere.