I haven’t slept well in days. I tell my wife: Baby me, Baby. Get a load of laundry going, strap me in a car seat and put me on top of the washing machine. Let me vibrate to sleep, to the lullaby of modern appliances. I’m tired of being tired.

a lawnmower
cuts a swath through
morning bird song

I close my eyes, and in the distance I can make out a miniature Rajput painting, a smudge of color getting closer. Can almost see an elephant sprouting tusks and a fly-whisk tail and kohl-eyed women peeking through stone-latticed windows at a tiger pestered by a swarm of arrows, a tiger that bears a striking resemblance to me.

Bio: Bob Lucky