The hands falter now and the writing
Goes awry with bankers questioning
The signatures as if they are forged,
The kolams look more like a child's
No more would they delight anyone
Except sisters-in-law who resented
Your imaginative dotless handiwork,
The recipes have to be checked as
The memory can't be trusted anymore
Children do not like the cooking as much,
The world keeps receding out of reach
Though it is at the tip of your fingers
But being with yourself is like going home
If the dark one who remembers the worst
Can be put on a leash and told to be quiet.
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