Private View Poem by Ananta Madhavan

A room full of people:
Sad, solemn, grave, they sip their drinks
And tease their segments of experience
For a private view.


One man, new to this diplomatic circuit,
Has a personal angst:
“Where shall we dine tonight? How much to tip?
I must keep track of my credit card”.


He ascertains the latest on the civil war
In Algorithmia, while furtively imagining
How that lovely diva might look
Without her diamonds and her garb.


A room raw with people:
Tray-fuls of small talk borne away
With the empty glasses; trivia of the day
Stubbed out in ash-trays.


Here are the tempicides, killing time,
Sad, solemn, grave, whipping their disasters
In self-assaulting loneliness to break
Their lend-lease of life.

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