POEM: Still life with Frenchman, dog and grandmother

BY RAHUL D’SILVA

Charles Aznavour is crooning about loss
and existence and loneliness and wine,
and other Gallic national concerns

and Tommy is sunning his golden fur
on checkerboard flagstones, turning over
methodically, every half hour

and my grandmother is staring at the
murky world in front of her milky eyes
saying (to no one in particular):

Before we were married, my husband used
to walk five miles, just to have tea with me.
I was once the village beauty, see.

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