Bombay Toast

In the frying of onions I hear landlines gossiping,
A rasp cricket bat speaking to the pavement,
The static of a Sunday morning TV resetting.

I see you standing there – starch white lungi draped
7AM freshly shaved – wooden spoon in hand
Commanding your caramelising populace.
Good Ol’ Ozymandias you, oh so much larger than life,
But alas still smaller than death, I guess.

This morning’s served over easy on white bread,
Finished with a flourish of powdered chilli-
Like a blessing of kumkum over breakfast.

Just how much space, and just how much time
has passed since I was last at the family table,
Feet free in the air, the crunch of Bombay toast,
The Sunday whisper of a slow waking home.

Samarth Agarwal is a poet and writer living in London,UK. He spends his free time attending writing workshops, volunteering at local charity shops and attending to his cat. His work has been featured in Cerasus and The Poetry Habitat.