The local’s grillwork window light
chequers a shirt’s pencil stripe.
Strands of unclaimed silken hair
rest on the next lap, undeclared.
An unsuspecting back for a backrest,
an erring saree tucked between thighs.

Restlesss reds of roving BESTs,
the staple red of szechwan spreads.
Skin burning tar-borne noontime breeze
and wet currents for the seaward cheek.
The din muffling matters on urgent lips.
Sleeping eyes, ignored, on shuffling limbs.

One cobbled thumping city.
And waves of us- crashing against more,
receding within more- waves of us.
I rustle past some, we are unaware.
We unaware rustle past me.

It’s time i go to Town to look
or go out of Town to look
or reach somewhere looking
for a place of quiet in this big city.




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