Babu Genu Dagadphode shells peas,
dropping the husk in a radius about his feet.
Unconcerned by stares in the 8.39 to Belapur,
he thinks of his wife and picks another pod.
Babu loves his Sumati, and she him,
or so he hopes, but has never verified.
De-leafing a cauliflower,
pulling strings off French beans,
his homecoming flurries drive the train on.
Which gives him greater pleasure?
The soft Pok! of a pod,
peas exploding on his palm in green orgasm,
or uncovering a misshapen pearl, tiny,
succulent, that he tucks away in his mouth,
with a scarce thought for his Missus.
By the time he is home, Babu Genu
will deplete a third of his load,
ring his doorbell with green fingers,
and greet his wife with emerald teeth.
Sumati sees, but just the same she loves her Mishter
for his trivial traveling kindnesses.
She thinks he loves her too, but has never verified.
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