London
MUKUL KESAVAN
Trembling, he would turn his back
to face the tree when he was den,
too tense to toe the touch-me-nots
he nudged to sleep in homework time
(a touch and lines of leaves would close,
like pages in some private book).
Ellowendeeowenlondon
then the whirl, the shout of Out!
when statued stalkers teetered
out of stillness. The game would thin
to him, the last one standing,
paroled from panic, sudden death.
Other times he died: ellowen…
Slap! voice muted mid-gabble,
back livid with the sting of dying.
He hated London's drawn-out doom
but the boys played each afternoon,
and so he died a thousand deaths.
Years later, safe in middle-age,
driving friends to meet the Taj,
he took a call; the grinning truck
swerved head-on as he said hullo.
Too late to ellowen, he shouted
London! on the Agra road.
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