Sports Fan


The dunk has its day as the funk,
Lebron does the damage like a cavalier.

The pool is cool except for an orb of fire,
Making tan marks around speedos.

And all the way in India, the agricultural heaves
Make the day for the cricket-mad Gujarat boys.

And I’m surfing the vast array of sports channels
The bum stuck to a fault of curvy cushion

The remote control my surfboard
As I caress the changing sports channels

Until it is all around me like a hollow barrel,
From fist-pumping action to the roar of spectators.

I’m travelling inside my own green room
My boxers are my trusted beach shorts.

Fetch length and wind speed collude in force,
As pixels go ‘on and off’ like an Icarus wave.

I’m in danger of being wiped out
To my own myopic indecision,

As my pupils, blink in compulsion,
Maddened by my own mortality

To couch-potato blight.




Sometimes roles in life
Are reversed.
My wife pays for the cheesecake piece I ordered.
And my mom drives my syncope-prone
Dad everywhere. I take the long road
Home, missing the seasonal Christmas traffic.
I call a friend who never calls me back,
And I wear a condom when
My wife is taking a break from the pill.
And the cheesecake turns gold
As I see empowerment shimmering
In my wife’s eyes. My dad loves my mom
More, knowing she is always keeping
A caring eye on him. The traffic is special
When you see every driver give
A folded note to the one-armed beggar
At the intersection. It’s always good to hear
A friend’s voice, especially
When you’ve shared a long history of friendship.
The condom appreciates the mood, knowing you’re not
Asking your wife to take the chemical route
That interferes with her metabolism.
And it’s those rarities, the infrequencies,
Oddities and anomalies, that make
You appreciate little changes
From routine. And sometimes they make
Your life a tad special. A cheesecake is never cheesy
For me, nor is the cheesecake moment, knowing
You sometimes let her wear the pants
In the cheesecake shop and even in the bedroom.
And have you seen, a woman in hip
Hugging hipster pants, and high stilettos,
A wisp of whale tail showing on top,
Buying you a piece of raspberry cheesecake?
And when home, letting your tongue get capsized
On an island of flamingoes?
Or smell the musky aroma of her g-string
And taste the underside of her medium-built feet?
And have you ever seen a man’s tongue
Turn so vividly blue all over?
Like he had been tasting for hours
A beautiful clitoria bloom.

Catching A Rat

mouse trap

Catching a rat is never easy.
You need the perfect bait, which in this part of the world
Is a coconut piece. You put the rat
Trap in the kitchen and wish for two things. First, that there
Is no rat, so that you can get away
With not touching the rat trap.
And secondly, if there is a rat, I want to man up
In front of my wife, to hold in my hand,
A trap with a mouse. Its always a tall pecking order,
To be brave, fact not myth,
And I am no pecking chicken.
They say roosters don’t peck, only hens do, and some hens
More than others.
The next morning,
I was pushed aside by my wife, who handled the rat in the trap.
        This was a story like chicken-licken, me,
Who chickened out of holding a rodent,
When my wife, like a rat expert,
Did so, with so much ease. It’s amazing
How my wife can catch hold of anything
The size of a rat, with so much deftness,
With such skill and precision. Pecking order
Stood that day. I realized how brave
Women are, just like those hens with aggression.
Who peck just to feel alive, to feel real,
To feel that she on top of things
Controlling me, when I’m at my weakest;
– Letting my wife hold the rat…