Sounds of a Morning House

The morning is not a cock's crow
it rings a bell in your head
the alarm is arrogant
it shrieks to make you deaf
as she shivers to teethe a ritual
one that earns her bread and butter
the pots and pans clamor
and the kitchen
turns to a concert hall
water scrubs
like a river to burst soap bubbles
hibernated by a hymn
offered as a token of thanksgiving.

Tanks empty their bellies
through taps, filling the thirst
of empty buckets waiting
to get drowned with dirt
as the maid imitates
the three monkeys of Gandhi.

Oil hisses to lacerate eggs
sold by its shells
on a pan baking
at boiling point
with a tea sip, the crust
of the brown bread breaks
to be chewed like grass
molars bite in vain
a few minutes later
the door closes
with a thump
as the lock copulates
with the key
to seal a house
from the sounds of a home,
ready to sleep again.


First published in the Second issue "Sound" in the Kalyani Magazine.