His song persuades applesauce
to scream, a boiling broth to quiet,
and urges foes to befriend.

I am a recorder for his librettos,
a cathedral for his plea,
and a married woman, for heaven's sake.

I hope he likes red beans and rice.

You go away on big business,
grizzly bear sleep,
and your senate in the tool shed.

But you don't come away
to my occupation, loopy dreams
or under my dress.

In what route did we lose the plums?

I carry an umbrella, a lone key
and a mug crowned by coffee fog
as I dash through a deluge.

My entry is quick like crash-sex.
The radio, defroster and wipers coo.
And steam Londons over my eyes.

My message needs a cell phone.

We went mad over lemon rice,
gully cricket and Nandi Hill -
were roused to form our ethnicity,

drink from the other as if we were water.
The air rumbled with masala,
rosin, and nightly monsoons.

Bangalorian Nag Champa is now a snake of ashes.