The Guest

The Guest

 

 

He tramples on my azaleas,

barges right in— no ringing

 

the bell or hearty knock–

plants himself right beside me

 

on the couch. Of course. The old

tusker won’t leave me alone,

 

ribbing, winking, and nodding my

direction all afternoon. When

 

guests leave, he arises, takes

long final sip of tea, gently sets

 

cup on table, marches out the

room— the indentation on

 

the couch– the only proof

of his appearance— that pesky

 

persistent pachyderm who is

now more friend than foe.

 

copyright Prasanta Verma

 

 

 

 

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