Almost midnight.
My husband still watering the garden.
So I write and wait for him, hoping for conversation
- a commodity he seems to have dispensed with.
Working too hard.
Too sick with headaches, sinus pains, flu.
Too preoccupied with rugby matches.
With garden.
A fix of friendship tonight from Saras and Leah.
Writing together and eating in Bangsar.
Two stories offering themselves to my notebooks.
If not for the pain in my hand I could go on and on.
We eat
Japanese edamame with our beer.
Then Indian tandoori, dahl and breads
in Lucky Garden,
watching dancing scenes from improbable Hindi movies.
(A couple in white saris dance on the edge of Grand Canyon.)
The evening air in Bangsar is thick with crows.
I photocopy flyers for my course
in the newspaper shop
I ask after the "uncles"
those venerable dhotied men who always kept my magazines
in the back room.
"Gone back to India?"
"Retired."
There was too a phonecall reading of a poem
from another friend.
Words strewn like flower petals
and I'm in the carpark trying to catch them all.
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