Mr Dimello from Colombo.

There is this old Mr Dimello ,

He lives at 5 Rosemead place, Colombo.

A place of tasteful decor in wood

Stone, glass and marble

All aged.

Big windows spilling in white

And faux on the columns -fake.

A contemporary colonial setting

Befitting his wise age.

His house is full of antiques,

Shells and loads of books.

Old faded pictures,

In greys and off whites,

Of his mom riding a pony,

His dad at the club,

Their first car the beetle,

And their third dog, shaine.

The rooms are four

And a suite- his mom and dad’s.

The east room is early,

Bright with dark colors.

The west room in whites,

Lively and bright,

Failing all expectations from its name.

But the north and the south,

Are pastel patches-

Somber and soothing.

The suite is a secret,

Probably with a wandering ghost

Locked shut after his moms demise

Where moths and spiders live rent-free.

An old Englishman,

Seemingly slow and mute,

Retired in a sea town so quaint,

His thousand stories, muffed.

A surprising national capital

No rush no hush,

The laughter is loud,

And courtesy spills,

The dirt contained,

And a prevailing charm.

Dimello the army man,

Today in his chair,

A rather comfortable looking thing,

Looks around and fidget a bit

He thinks and then he gnaws,

On The end of his old specs wise.

The pretty resemblance of his self

And the city in which he resides.

Then he goes back to his routine,

Re-reading books and watering orchids,
And staying invisible in his large mansion.