Sits on a the Star Chambers of a Hundred Worlds, on the War
Councils for dozens of planets. Galactic soldier-king.
Well, that’s what he fancies he would be, if he could.
Lives in Wimbledon, because, as he will tell you,
London’s the only place to get decent Indian food anymore.
Reads magazines like International Bounty Hunter,
Looks down at his paunch with misgivings, and at night
he goes out to try and score some soma at a club.
Indra didn’t used to be this way. He could have
told you the sites of hundreds of battles, those
he rained down on, hollered into via the wind, could’ve
described the shape and texture of each shield on
each soldier, its material and the color of its paint.
Now, it’s all he can do to make an effort to watch
those monkeys in the Pentagon, in Beijing, and sometimes call
down a little downpour down to trick some totty into a cab.
– 2001, Montreal
February 2, 2012