this landscape i call home
refuses to call me son.
it laughs at my accent
tenderly developed and pruned,
pats my khata peeta belly
that ascends the hills in elevators,
peers into my back pocket
that jingles with an alien sound,
smiles politely while i take pictures
and sighs at my pitiful understanding,
feeds me meals reserved for guests
and makes tasteful dinner conversation,
and then packs me off
back to where i came from
and goes back
to washing dishes.