The name of the one I'm talking to is
Obviously not Dave, not with those tones—
Surely it's Dubir, not a blonde frat-boy,
And he's not American. The service
Is not Express, no matter what the card
Reads, no matter which hit plays as I hold,
As Bangalore time runs on a cycle
Of unfulfilled dharma, a reliving
Over and over again of the same
Suffering, and if suffering is an
Illusion, as the Buddha would have us
Believe, Dave and I have yet to break through.

After half-heartedly helping me, Dave
Takes a bus home to a house that smells of
Cooking different than a guy named Dave
Would eat for dinner. He dandles children
In a dialect on his knee that does
Not require pressing pound, and Dave, that is
Dubir, makes love to a woman who cries
Out his real name, the one he has hidden
From me on the phone, and afterwards, he,
Still Dubir, thinks of the time zones turning,
The rotation of the whole consuming
World, where it is always sunrise somewhere,
And someone is getting ready to thread
The headset over the ear to listen
To the complaints of debtors who never
Stop shopping, never quite pay it all off.