THE BECKONING

Every now and then
From the edges of her kurtis
And the flares of her jeans
Life beckons.

Daily phonecalls to home
Rehearsed down to the silences;
And the bark of the petted dog
The books splintered with words
A folder full of music
Life beckons.

I smoke away the voice
Killing myself a bit,
The time to live is long gone
I was born late.

The tears aren’t coming;
The fears are.
Will I live unlived?
Will I die alive?
I am deaf with doubts whenever
Life beckons.