Arriving in Chennai

What am I doing in a hotel
where soup is poured from a teapot
and the houseboy flattens himself
against the wall to let me pass?

Fifteen floors below the sea-view infinity pool
and potted frangipanis lie piles
of rubble, paving stones rearing skywards
like graves shattered at the Last Judgement,

endless hoardings pointing to a better life.
Why dream of two bedroom
when you can have three?

On the pavement two men sit plugging
the gaps in a cardboard peacock,
their hands full of white marigolds.

We do it differently better.
You can have perfect wedding.

Even the dog resolutely asleep under the flyover
is getting on with his life
and that couple signing across twenty feet of air
know just what they mean.

What am I doing, searching for a house
on the old road to Madras –
that dusty bullock track lined with banyans,
this four “lane” highway
where the only way to cross is to launch out

against the flow
not even looking, palm raised
like Moses parting the Red Sea.