Maybe you and I will
grow old together in India.
Sit on our lawn chairs
in our little terrace,
coconut trees framed in the sun.
Rock, rock.
Maybe a smoke and a scotch,
the smell of burning wood
and flesh piercing our nostrils,
watching lazy bicycle men before our eyes.
Rock, rock,
scotch and a smoke,
as ants infiltrate the center of our guts,
growing in and out of our eyes and nostrils,
creating life where there is none anymore.