Waking late

Waking late I take out my tooth brush,
and amply apply the flavoured paste,
she strokes her paint brush with a hush,
I cleanse my teeth and she her art taste;

laid to rest the easel and laid the breakfast,
by the time lazy me bathed and came clean,
clean of the little lies and claims made in past,
dripping wet, my body and her eyes, with a sheen;

I eat while she sits there thirsting for small talk,
tasty aloo parottas made with love and care,
yet I take for granted and not commend her work,
as I finish she regretfully nears the easel laid bare;

unaware she loved me more than her genius art,
art that earned the bread and board for both of us,
I lower on the couch before the telly she bought,
telling her I would start my business of war surplus;

she smiled and her eyes beamed hopefully at my lie,
she didn’t want money but only that I be happy till I die. 
but try as I can I can’t change the folly of my ways,
how us? She was a helper and I was one of her strays. 


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