When my friends left the country,
one by one, I ate and drank and sang
at their farewells, talking of how true friendships last
across the tunnel of distance.
Goodbyes glittering in those terminal summers.
The last coffees turning cold
over the jokes nobody understood
but us. The inadequacy of reason
made no difference in my Bombay.
We were playing the cards we were dealt.
The lanes in the old colony are now absent:
Sooty faces squirming their way
up the light that never went off.
Our houses thinning like a departing aircraft.
It may never snow in this city.
Alone is rather unromantic.