But in the evening he'd grow silent
And the purse and the glasses
                                    abandoned
He'd lie in his bed on his sides
Writing his name in the air
With one finger
And talk himself to despair
                           Must keep quiet
                           Shouldn't have done it
                           Shouldn't have done it
                           Shouldn't have done it
                           Must keep quiet now
                           Must keep quiet.
Or he'd rub the frown on his brow
With crossed fingers
While cigarettes would come and go
Would come and go,
And if I'd ask him - Sir!
Sir!
Hmm? He'd say.
Just like that.
As if it were a word
And his trousers would lie one side
And shirt on one
And the ashtray like a sullen
                              volcano
And paper and books - a damp pipe
Some old tobacco, and paper and books
And scraps of letters
Written in neat hand
And Bob Dylan alongside Beethoven
And Joan Baez beneath Meera
And a million bottles of mineral water
And a just empty cup of tea
Would stare and stare
And the cooler would blow and blow
And cigarettes would come and go
And come and go.

Then just as you'd think he's done
                                               for
He'd shake his head and say
Today…I had…that 'feeling'…
And he'd raise his eyes ceiling-ward
And crane his neck and
                                           sing.

Maybe Krsna you'd know what to say to him,