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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.
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