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No Garlands Then


Before we came back
there were marigolds all the way,
in the desert mound of dead
where ant armies crawled
over tooth brushes
and vermin gorged lifebuoy cakes,
even Pakistan tourist squalor,
could not smother,
snow drops in early morning dew:
and there were marigolds and garlands
all the way.

But there were no marigolds when we
came home,
amidst loads of packaged cartons
and cardboard padded bed,
with no room to move
much less to manouevre
and you mocked in derision
'Mission accomplished'.
No, there were no garlands then.

There were no marigolds
that sunny afternoon
on cane chairs in an empty room,
while I spoke of Hirohito's death
and Japanese pride
you complained,
 'you disturb me so'.
No, there were no garlands then.

There were no marigolds
that Jardine cockroach morning,
as we stumbled on doorsteps
and gasping for air
by the only open window,
you exclaimed in sad horror,
'what things you do'.
No, there were no garlands then.