There are so many things
That run on the aphorism of
“finders keepers”. Love, fate,
Hobby, career, sexuality for some,
Each a treasure that has no real map,
You find and you keep,
And some people are so lucky
They are gifted everything, and they don’t
Even search, Arranged marriages,
Boring sexualities, perennial hobbies,
Permanent employment and so forth.
Still some treasure make you
Like when you realize that this accident,
Right in front of me, sought me
And I, her, like two seekers,
Who held a feeling on a pedestal
And searched east and west,
High and low, every nook and corner,
And they found it under or over their chin.
Sometime the find is underneath your nose,
Your friend’s girlfriend,
The stamps that you love to collect,
The music that rocked you to life,
When you realize, everything has its beauty,
Even those who never seek to find.
Like Sachin and Geetha,
Arranged marriaged, becoming closer
Every sunset and one day, they will be in love,
A love that was just as much
Rapprochement, as growing,
Even graphite in the right conditions
Turn to diamonds, and sometimes,
The arranged becomes more
Real, than real love. How 30 years
On, they still do it, with
No affirmation of love, but polluting sound,
Making noises in a well-lit room,
Using the oldest language man has used,
What stands with no commas,
Just a hyphen, which un-limits,
A feeling, to the edge of being insane,
Learning that eternities do come,
Even inside muted universes.
In tabooed utterances of a four letter word,
That symbolically exists in every paltry act,
In an arranged perpetuity.
Unfinders are too keepers.