A daily I’m keeping
for years, just for civility,
you may say
At the exact hour in the morning
the frail man comes fighting
rain and cold, aches and wounds
I spread a smile,
relieve him, and at once fling it
into the fixed corner where they
idle away for a month or two
When the old days fade,
the man from Bhakuri,
in lungi and shirt, arrives
Suleiman is never happy with my stock
and every time he wearily asks
if there are aged taps, tabs, mobiles, cycles,
machines or motors
Sometimes I rush for a broken
chair or some junked pots and pans,
sometimes I surrender, but only
after shaking heaven and hearth
If you ask
why I’m keeping the daily,
for civility you may say,
I too say ‘yes’
Then again,
I’m keeping it
for facing the frail man daily,
and yielding to Suleiman
once a month or two
