1 poem | Dion D'Souza

The Case of Kashibai

Drumbeats of damnation!—
but it’s only the cutlery,
                  the crockery,
sent crashing and clanging
from basin to drawer or rack
by the simmering cleaning lady.

Imagine our little surly Sisyphus
our sour puss with hitched-up sari
trudging up and
down the staircase,
the dishes forever accumulating
(what appetites they have how much they eat
all the time can’t even clear up their plates!),
muttering hopeless curses
under her shortened breath,
heaping abuse upon abuse
in her cluttered brain,
the sudsy steel wool stuff of her patience
worn out against titbit-topped Tupperware
       and greasy melamine…

a bowl comes rolling out—



                                          as if




almost awaiting
the weary hand that will retrieve and
restore it
to its impermanent niche.

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