Futile Mumbai Dreams

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.

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