Poems

Poem

Dada taught me cards.
Sitting in his suit of pants and vest.
A fistful of joker-red hair strewn across his brow.
His big belly like a cannon ball.

Poem

Dada has stories from Calcutta
wrapped up in his big belly.
When he belched they would unravel.

Give The Ball to the Poet
Poem

When they were young,
She kept wicket for her brothers,
They batted,
Bowled,
Padded up
And ratcheted up the score.
She crouched behind the stumps
Keeping wicket.