Jacketed in a polythene cover
My first volume of poetry lies on the table.
Taking it into his hands
Caressing it gently
Running his thumb over the edges
And sniffing at the new pages and the un-dried ink,
My boy asked me:
'Have you done it all alone papa?'
I nodded in assent
Airing a sense of pride and achievement.
'Impossible,' he said
And ran away without looking back.
I laughed at his innocence.
Then I turned to my Caesarian issue
With maternal pleasure.
It reminded me of the day
When my mother handed me my son
Decked up in clothes, for the first time,
Saying: 'He resembles your wife'
The book appeared to me
In a different hue altogether.