WORKAHOLIC

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.