The Son Abroad

The Son Abroad by Anuradha Bhattacharyya

Father,

You had fretted and fetched

A world of comforts

For me when I was a child.

Father,

Now that I tower

Above you in height,

Do I hide my stature

Inside a Donald dummy

Amusing children in a park

For a dollar an hour abroad.

You may squirm at the thought

That you had brought me up

With love and care

And sowed dreams of a bungalow

In my sleepy head.

While here I sell dreams

Of a different kind,

Housed in a model crocodile,

Chasing and being chased

By an amused crowd,

Earning a living for you and me.

Hope this irregularity

Will not shock you out of love,

The regard you hold for my sincerity.

Hope I have not perforated

Your crystal ball

By this banal truth of materiality.