I could be an engineer
and smear my hands
in the happy evening grease.
And take you to the Marine
to sit like all those thousand couples
to feel the Arabian breeze.
We could dream of a home
in the match-box flats
in Mumbai’s monstrous heart.
And that could be my story;
of a man wise enough
who chose the stable life over his art.
But baby, I am a poet
and since my pockets have holes
I can’t give you that for which you so badly long.
I promise to love you fiercely, though,
so much that it breaks my heart
and then, I will write you a lamented song.