Tim calls from Brighton

By Akhil Katyal


Tim calls from Brighton, panting,

I ask him what’s wrong with you,

he says he wants a bit of friendly

advice but mainly needs my cue

for ranting, I plop myself on the

bed and give him the ‘Go ahead.’

‘If only,’ he says, ‘I could forget

him, all will be fine,’ he’s lonely,

my instinct says, but I listen to

his words an’ keep a tab on mine,

but soon, Tim, without a sense

of proportion, as is usual with him,

lets his grumbling decline from

the high themes of love and loss,

to how his day had been, what he’d

read and what he’d seen, how he

goes to the gym, to gather moss,

for the hot guys, but still, hates

to get on the treadmill. We yack

about his daily itinerary, bitch

about the world, and wax literary,

‘Love, you know Tim, is a bit like

your treadmill, where else would we

sweat so much, with heart-rate

gaining, think about time elapsed

and the time remaining, and run

like that (we don’t want to be parted)

only to end at the point we started.’


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