I could not linger on the platform # 1

I am no natural poet.
No sir!
Poetry comes very rarely,
Infrequently, to me.
It had been knocking
The last few days
Faintly.
I did not open the doors
(Metaphorical), of mind.
I'm a busy man,
You see.
How can a professional
Adult Indian male
Be so weak as to stop running
His private-public rat race
And take time out
For a thing so insignificant
As licking his wound
That rankles with pain of (good) old days?
I could not linger on the platform that night.
I had a train to catch,
3 bags to place,
With a status of RAC.
Delayed heartache.
The prognosis I prophetically knew.
It was true.
Home is not where the heart is;
Home is where the purse can be filled.
And the belly.
Heart and all it can do,
Is nothing -
When compared to
What stomach does when aroused.
Therefore, I have travelled 798 kilometers
And come
To the city where I work
From the only city where I ever lived
From the city I loved
(And hated, and tried to flee from
But that's another story.
I was a better/worse man/boy then).
So, I could not stay,
While coming or going,
On platform # 1.
12 hours and so much to do.
You see
I could not even meet you
And you and you.

Kashi

How'd I ever write of anyone but you, O Kashi!
Lord Shiva, the destroyer of all desires,
How burnt he in his desire for return!
I too, with closed eyes come to you
And roam in the lanes I lived in-
A restless, haunter
Of my city,
My ghats, my and lanes and days with you.
My uncle, exile, he wept for his Kashi,
And told
“The man who loved you most
Was cursed to stay away forever.”
A curse, they say, is curse
When heart it burns.
The old curse fell.
This time,
On me.
The curse of living away,
Of never coming back
To you, O Kashi!