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