by Saikat Das
From the hanger the shirt
Is staring at me
Thinking
When she will ‘put on’ me
She’s a yellow shirt, almost faded
And a bit crumpled
But knows precisely
How far I can go
For her
She is more exacting than my wife
She even tolerates her rival
But simply bites me
For the lizards
Those loiter around the hanger
And touch her occasionally
I wash her every Sunday and Thursday
With my own hands
She says the washing machine
Is not for her
When she dries herself on the rope
After her bath
A quiet scent comes out
Of her soul
Her yellow skin fluttering in the air
Doesn’t quite make you thirsty
Only lends you a shade
The rest of the week
She is nearest to my skin
My wife
Keeps a tight eye on me
But never suspects her
There she is
Grinning at me
Now she will ‘put on’ me
And go for an evening walk.
