The Evening Supper

[Shivam Jha]

Every evening, my father

Sits to eat

Just like an Indian man;

Cross-bending his feet.

 

Sitting, smiling,

He eats the lovely rice,

Just then the waste rice

Is conveyed; by a mice.

 

Then suddenly; bells,

The phone’s ring, when

My father was eating; like a king

 

Then came my mother,

In a plate; holding food,

She started eating,

In a great mood.

 

Slowly taking morsels,

In the mouth,

Side-by-side, clearing

 

Everyday’s doubts.

Happily they,

Used to eat,

Then I came before;

Them to meet.

 

Asking mother,

To take a while,

Still has to go,

Many miles.

(original and unpublished)