The Guest



He tramples on my azaleas,

barges right in— no ringing


the bell or hearty knock–

plants himself right beside me


on the couch. Of course. The old

tusker won’t leave me alone,


ribbing, winking, and nodding my

direction all afternoon. When


guests leave, he arises, takes

long final sip of tea, gently sets


cup on table, marches out the

room— the indentation on


the couch– the only proof

of his appearance— that pesky


persistent pachyderm who is

now more friend than foe.


copyright Prasanta Verma