Paying Pensioner Poem by Ajit Das

The dark thins out, the landscape
stirs slowly with hints of life;
the day begins for the old man living
in the house across the road.

The maid rings the bell; rubbing
his sleepy eyes, he opens the door,
lets her in, picks up the news paper,
shuffles back into his empty room.

He helps himself to a cup of tea,
glances over the day’s headlines,
waters the flower pots on the lawn,
plucks a basketful for daily prayer.

By now a flurry inside the house
breaks the stillness: hurried steps,
flush of toilets, jingle of cutlery,
and rustle of laundered clothes.

The morning rush is over; he goes
to the market, makes daily purchases,
gets a handyman for fused tube lights,
leaking taps or broken door-latches.

In between he tries to read a journal,
see TV shows, or listen to old melodies;
but the same refrain rings in his ear:
how can he sit around doing nothing?

A wry smile flashes across his face;
bread earner, then pensioner, now helper,
all merged together, can not guarantee
his long cherished reclining hours.