Poem 2: Curios, by CP Surendran



It's three in the morning. 
The house rings with alarms, 
There's someone leaning On the doorbell. It's her
After three years. 
He lets her in, 
Puts on some tea. 
She lights a cigarette
With a match that might set
The house on fire. 
She unpacks the weather
Which is New York. 
They sit in silence. 
The room turns into a museum of moods.