Sunday Poem By Deyasini Roy

My Favourite Chair

My favourite chair sits fat
in the south west corner
of my room reading
blurred newspapers of yore
in steaming cups of tea
brewing as silent vapours on
the dark glistening glass rims.
It is a mere piece of furniture,
You would say.
I’ve often seen it roam
in pet-cat steps in
dark silent nights
along the sprawling
starlit corridor;
In pregnant teardrops
When the searing smell
of Aloo-parathhas frying
in ghee come to me all at once
feeding my orphaned happiness.
I have felt it the most, in rains
from weathered rooftops that
drop as evening-sugar crystals
on my perforated forehead
I have felt it as I stand
near my bittergourd window
moving in onion gingham curtains,
I have heard his voice
In midnight phone rings
When the kitchen becomes alive
And the vessels drop.
The cutlet still frying in
breadcrumbs of nostalgia.

At other times when
my chair is tired, it recedes
back to the south west corner
of my room, the moon shines
on my empty dog bowls
I walk in silent cynthol steps,
close my lampshade eyes
And hear the waterfalls within.