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Sunday

Mukut Borpujari

Sunday evening wore on
under the sprawling oak
behind my room
where honeybees made a hive;
sunflowers stood tall over the
dense undergrowth.

At a distance the weeping willow;
children and men could inhabit
under it for a summer afternoon.
Squirrels chase each other
up and down
on the live oak trunk, scratching the bark.

There had been another tree
where two neighborhood girls
made a hammock to sit in —
chickens and pigeons created a
weird cacophony in the backyard.

The neighbor whose name
I never knew,
came out to yell at his children
playing in the front, from the portico,
wearing only a pair of shorts and
rubber slippers.

As I watched from my window,
to see his daughter’s tears
running down her cheeks,
the way they do every Sunday evening,
because it’s the time to turn in
and tomorrow is a school day.

They don’t care
about the sky turned pink and orange
around the neighbor’s house,
ending a day about a house
that held a man’s life.

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