life of a human

I do not know, if
smoked tunas are hung out
to dry on walls by the beach, bicycle
loitering.
I have only heard of smoked salmons.
But they sound nice.

I would like to play
some football. I do not know how I get
penalties.
I have heard of Pele and Maradona,
seen pictures of busty girlfriends.
But all of it looks nice.

Tomorrow, you will come, you will go,
like a cloud some rain, then barren
sunshine.
I have heard of love and hearts in a flutter,
read stories where they died together.
But then, it dreams nice.

I have wondered about the Dhaka muslin,
or more about Dacca. Spellings carry
memories.
Under which lamp now sits the boy
whose grandfather once weaved looms of splendor?
And it touches nice.

I have sat under the low, mango tree
counting the stones they pelt. I would like
an alphonso steamed in the fumes of
a volcano.
My favorite will be Stromboli.
But it tastes nice.

And then I wonder,
if strombolied alphonso is same as
beach-hung smoked tuna?
I wonder who will tell me,
I dream no one will,
ever.