Saturday, February 08, 2014


You told me
you were leaving me
over lunch.
To be precise,
over a plate full of
grilled chicken,
french fries,
tartar sauce
and iced tea
in a tall iced glass.
Could it possibly
get more insipid?
It was a nice day too.
And for something to do
I looked at my plate.
The cherry tomatoes
were sitting
amongst the lettuce
like little ladies
on green garden grass.
I could almost
hear them gossiping.
I almost laughed.
I almost cried.
I almost threw
my half of the money
on the table and left.
Like one of those
dramatic, deranged
heroines in movies
made by that little man
in the big, bug glasses.
And then I thought.
What? Is this it?
Is this going to be
our last moment?
Sitting in a restaurant,
amidst inane people,
eating food priced too high?
I have an insatiable appetite
for last moments.
I like to plan them,
cherish them,
and turn them into memories.
Big, beautiful, grandiose.
Melancholy, full of pathos.
Leaving of lovers,
parting of friends,
it must all go perfectly.
It's not a recommended way
of doing things frankly.
But if you have ever
missed out on a last moment,
one that you can never get back,
that you have no memory of,
you'll probably feel
this hunger clawing at you too
and you'll probably understand
why that overpriced lunch
on that lovely day
looked so very bland. 


urkaron said...



virinder sabharwal said...

biding farewell to birds
is their celebration
not to us is it
so fair and well.