Bangalore Junes

Mornings and evenings and mornings and evenings

That strange sort of melancholy you only find when it rains

Stored away doings - some crumbled to rubbles

Some drenched in the smell of what-we-cooked-yesterday.

Sun is precious, and filtered and processed

And seeps in through sieves, stretched across the windows

And time is precious, and filtered and processed

But too much or too little - that nobody knows.

Replayed and re-run, and re-heard and re-spun

To speak is to repeat, and nothing is new

Between changing watches and the next batch of dishes

Twenty nine hours of nothing is due

Nothings have piled up like laundry in stacks

And laundry has piled up like yoga on mats

And mats are all rolled up in dusty old corners

Misplaced brooms and discount packs.