Sensibility

Quietude is broken by
The whir of the note counting machine.
In the dim, a deep measured voice
Slowly recites Frost in my ears.
And yet, I do not turn.

I am not reminded of the boisterous
Kolkata streets with the humid weather
The big mosquitoes, and the little alleyways
That only the cartman could navigate.
I am not reminded of the mighty Victorian skyline,
or the tiny drops that look as wonderful on your skin
As absent from your eyes, and as present on
The little blades of grass all around.

All I'm left with is an insipid nostalgia
Of times better spent, imagining your hands
Trace a yellowed paper and bring it to light.

For now though
I don't like your poetry.