On the mortality of envy

If she stares with an eye

that shrinks with every step you take,

and he manoeuvres as a puppet

to douse your unceasing desire,

do not worship your gut,

do not spin and be what it takes to

decrease every anticipation to truth.

Stand there like a Disney fairy, and smile

Let your French braid stir up the magic

while you vogue your way upto the bar

and hold your Martini glass with dexterity.

They are still in the act, and you must smile

as she shadows your movement

and he barricades your escape

you must look into the reflector

at the far end across the dance floor

and tell yourself- "honey, smile!"

Your radiance probably upsets them

the dazzling caravan of beads climbing up your braid

reminds them of attraction.

Your shoes that make the noise they can’t afford

sends them into fits of estrangement.

And gradually as the lights subdue

the music turns into a crescendo

and the climax is inescapable,

the envy must die.

She asks you to grace the floor with her

and he composes poetry on the swirling

curves of your frock, and all you do, is smile…

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