The Fishermen
They were tossed
by starvation.
We never visited them.
Cyclone drowned many of them
in the sea current.
We were either watching TV
or playing WhatsApp then.
We rated them low
for their sun-baked black skin,
uncouth tongue,
fish smell,
shabby shirts and lungis.
Yet they come
hearing our shrieks.
They row more vigorously
than the flood waters.
They keep us under their wings
like a mother hen
on a lurching boat.
From my book, Monsoon Turbulence, published by Poetry Nook, US
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