On Sleep

She doesn't show up when she's thought about.
Her case is like a due delivery:
Flumped on the sofa, you keep gazing out,
Thinking "It will come now." The minutes flee.

With all hopes gone, you turn to other stuff
That helps deflect your focus from the parcel,
Like scrubbing vests with coffee stains — so tough —
Or sweeping dust from showpieces of marble.

Then unexpectedly, the doorbell rings
When you are fully lathered in the bath,
Enjoying wine, a cig — your favourite things —
To go or not, you cannot do the math.

Then, towel-wrapped, you open up the gate
But find no one except a note that says,
"I came. Rang thrice. No answer. Sorry mate!
I'll try within the next few working days."

Shamik Banerjee

If you have any thoughts about this poem, Shamik Banerjee  would be pleased to hear them