POEM
Work, work, work
he prefers to be always on the wheels.
And he knows how to put
his subordinates to be on the wheels.
Work, work, work
he comes out of the office
late in the night
with his brief-case
walks toward his car
turns the ignition key
starts the car and
speeds past to his flat
miles away.
Work, work, work
obsessesed with work
his wife receives him
with a gloomy face and tears
welling up in her eyes.
By the time he reaches the house
his children will be fast asleep.
‘Work, work, work -
you have nothing else to ponder about.
Neither about two children nor about
your wife.
You are a stranger to our children
at such an early age’
-she sheds tears.
He cares two hoots to
her tears and complaints.
Work, work, work
he wakes up early in the morning
completes his routine work
have his breakfast
his wife with her sombre face
arranges his tiffin box
and puts it in the brief-case.
Well-dressed, scenting perfume,
he walks toward his car
starts it, drives straight to his office
and starts the day’s work
before the lenova with his
finger playing music on each letters.
Work, work, work
obsessesed with work.
One day when he
reached the flat late into the night
and to his shock
he found his flat-empty
and a lady
staying
in the adjacent flat
handed over the keys to him
saying ‘they are gone’.
Where? When, why
while entering the flat
and switching on the
light he asked himself.
With an empty stock
his stomach like a furnace
he couldn’t sleep through-out the night.
