His wool-woven fabric, that one fop fleece
worn for—? “Diversity Day,” he reminds,
every third Thursday. And every third
Thursday, at thirty minutes past three
hours expected, he comes… carrying
scents of crowded musk, sweat rolled in
summer dust; a perfume drowned with damp
earth and the steams of humidity after fresh
rain— burnt oil slabbed on the perky fringes
of the purples and deep-desert reds hugging
his neck line. Tacky: the way the wild Night
Queen blossoms between each porous thread,
smacking into the bitter-black coolness of cracked
cardamom that continues breeding with onions
and lamb in a wooden mehmas somewhere across
the tracks of 113. I picture the rich pink and yellow
mouths of the frangipanis breathing adornment up
the holes in each pant leg as he strides toward a
door ajar, allowing the spices from inside to linger
out and greet; tickling nose-hair while salivating buds—
she comments on the soft nap fabric of fleece sliding
between each finger, flinging fast the weight of it
all on top of still-simmering supper, he comes…
carrying left-over’s in Tupperware, wearing
the gloss of turmeric and coriander curry
powder on his chaffing lips.
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