On a saffron bus, in the Indian heat,
she looked back in to the road,
that dwindled into a golden camp.
Thirteen years ago dressed in a white kurti
and sucking a sweet tablet,
not in hunger but elated by the train journey.
The wheels sang on the tracks,
her maroon waist coat clung to her sticky skin,
from behind her peach frame she peeked out at the boys from Ghana,
late into the rainy night playing chess.
Those young lads and her girls had met on a trip.
She woke drowsy from a dream last night,
with the taste of Punjabi food, milk coffee and vanilla ice cream.
There were Chinese letters on the side walk,
Before she leaves, she hopes you won’t desert her,
not when the train stops or before it begins.
She will sleep by Hermann Hesse.