(returning to Bombay after November 26, 2008)
This time we didn't circle each other
hackles raised,
fur bristling.

This time there was space
between us -
and we weren't competing.

Space enough and more

for the nose-digging librarian
and her stainless steel tiffin box,

for the Little Theatre peon to read me
his Marathi poems
on rainy afternoons

for the woman on the 7.10 Bhayandar slow
with green combs in her hair
to say
and say again,
He's coming to get me.
He's coming

This time
the city surged
towards me

mangy
bruised-eyed
non-vaccinated

suddenly
mine.