That place where poets go to bask in the sun

that set for the moon in their metaphors.

That place which no poet ever writes about.

Not an ode to the assiduous sandcastles,

to the mother removing water from her I-am-a-little-teapot girl,

to the twins wrapped like snakes around their father's trunks for legs.

After sunglass-slipping to nosebridge, slant glances giving to juveniles, the admirers of exotic

ethics return to pen on the sapless soil knitting noose for thirsty necks, osseous children

with perilous toys of ebullient trends and their pregnant mothers with no flesh,

praises for old gods and satires for modern devils but nothing for Kokum Feni Toddy*

But don't be so disheartened O' Vijay's conquest°,

I will write a sonnet for the half drowning beachballing kids at Colva Beach,

for the rebellious kiss outside Basilica of Bom Jesus,

for the camera conscious flamingos of Salim Ali's,

for the Max Cady saint under dudhsagar falls

but nonotnever for the poets reclining and engaging in their acts of poetic voyeurisms.

~Ajay
30/9/18

*Local beverages
°

India occupied Goa from the Portuguese and the operation was named Operation Vijay