The wealth of this instant – a little nudge behind
its ears – tickle to its toes – a dig in the
ribs – and it rewards me with a
friendly lisp of protest –
soon it will hide behind my back – rolled away,
of living tissue –
stay behind and put up
and so, memory pastes the
in a scrap book – that scrap book
will live me when an old
instant will doze in an armchair
before a slow-boned winter fire some
years ago in the future.
Sketch by Rashmi Jauhari.
… and if you have been good enough to read this, I will urge you to take a moment and read through this post on my other blog, Delhibaroque.wordpress.com… http://bit.ly/YeURAn. Thanks!