Eye Contact (or Our Casual Lives)

What is with this
eyes-meeting thing?
Just another group of suits
walking briskly past each other
in the dry-aired
tunnels of an office
and our eyes meet
for barely a moment
and glance away while
continuing our conversations
with suddenly faceless colleagues
while holding our folders smartly
your laptop pulling your shoulders
down to level your eyes with mine.
By the time I reach my cabin
I’m ready to have an affair
with you
with your eyes.

15 floors, 2000 employees,
grey and black and blue suits
and I only saw your eyes.
I’ll never find you.
So I had this casual fling
with the guy in marketing.
It’s a fun thing
But he has such regular eyes.

Drying out in Kerala

There is no oil on my soul.
I too have come out
to dry my wings.

I watch as you take a long flight
close to the surface of the water
fast and confident
smart and straight
and then make a perfect dive
bravely into the world below.

Where are you, my Cormorant?
I wait breathlessly.
Are you breathing in there
as you explore and search
find food and feed your desire?
You are gone for longer
than I can hold my breath
and then,
hold it again
till suddenly you emerge
some ten feet away
your long neck and curious beak
rotating agilely
to gulp in the world without;
well-fed now in more ways than one.

I see you perched on a fallen branch
by the shore
with your wings wide open,
wings larger than I would have imagined
wings that you flutter expansively
to dry in the breeze
releasing every drop of water
that clings on to you.

David, the naturalist, tells me
you are not protected.
The only water bird with no oil on it’s body.
You must come out to dry yourself
every now and then
or you may become too wet and heavy
and sink in a watery world.

I too have come out
away from my world
to dry my wings
There is no oil on my soul.