India! Or: Dear Roommate, Across the Ocean

There you are across the ocean shopping for saris and I imagine what it must be like to go back to a place with which you are so related but from which you are so estranged.

The sun is on your skin and it is warm and if the air of our neighborhood and that of your current location were to collide it would smell like cheesesteaks and curry and there would be a whirlwind tornado of dull winter greys and brilliant dyes of purple and orange.

Something important would merge and sitars and bucket drums would ring like weird bombs in the freeze and balm of a crashing afternoon.