Two Poems
Shamik Banerjee

That Girl in My Office

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The first to greet the pendent accent lights.

Two part-round forehead moles, quite often, hide

behind her hair or boost her face’s bright

allure. Wayfarer specs for kohl-dressed eyes.

On Mondays—casual—crop tops, denim jeans;

on Fridays—tussar saris—like a bride.

The aisle with common copier machines

is where our short, nonvocal language dies

and actual words transpire, though for a while.

Quick glances, planned or random, or a smile

unite our cubicles, three feet apart.

Fate knows the rest. But what’s known to my heart:

when other female colleagues near my space,

a shade of pallidness engulfs her face.

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First published in Westward Quarterly​

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Gul, the Grocer

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Oh! To be like Gul, the grocer!

Disquiet’s cuirassier can’t toss her

    Comfort away. 

She sits under a fan all day,

Waves at the residents who cross her,

 

and dabbles in the lines of Chaucer.

No office work. No horrid boss. Her

    Ancestors bought

This little round-the-corner spot

And each of them worked as a grocer.

 

A half-filled teacup on the saucer.

That loaded cashbox right across her.

    Her spending’s scant—

Some portion goes to mendicants.

The world of plushness never draws her.

 

Oh! To be like Gul, the grocer!

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Shamik Banerjee is a poet! [Bio to follow -- A. D. Min]

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