There is a man for that:

For that open front door and that ongoing channel running loud at 10 in the morning,

Those papers peeking out of files on the table and the displaced antimacassars just touching the floor.

For that dining table decorated not with some leftover plates. but with groceries from last night.

There too is a bed-

Layered with dust on the headboard, and washed but crumpled clothes on the footboard.

Bedsheet with morning crinkles and a wet towel and pillows with elbow squeezes in the middle.

No, it's not a crime scene in a household but an average day in any.

But there is no worry, for there is a woman with that man too.

There is a woman too:

For that sweet smell of fresh food cutting through this mess that the running fans send spreading.

There is a woman we don't know of;

Mother, daughter, or house help, she could be any.

She is there in those closed walls behind that locked gate, in the stillness of her bedroom fan, in the wiped dust of the furniture, in the ironed clothes inside the cupboards, in the wet towel on the balcony, in the flat bedsheet and fluffy pillows of the room.

She is in all that until that is all she is.

On most average days, there they always are.

But tonight with them is a fallen bowl too slipped from the woman's hands and rolled into the dining room from the kitchen.

There is a man and a woman for it.

But the man passes by it, and the woman passes over it too.