A man drill breaks the footpath to lay new pipes; the woman in black

cannot cross and takes the way around, the sewer swallowed the stone

this dawn, exposing its cheap imitation of a faraway brook; I ask it the

pain of two drops refusing to let go. The tailor calls his wife to measure

a girl, his black goat chewing a fashion statement on her drying salwar,

chicken hang bunched in reflection, in a tired note of a complete song.

If the world ever was created, it was done by this panipuri wala

at the end of the footpath, or any other at any other, punching a hole in a

dry puri with his index, asking meethi ya theeki? Sweet or spicy? And the

answer almost always is- make it medium, brother.

Two trees sway on opposite streets, oblivious of the humanity walking by,

never touching as if reading a poem just to pass the evening.

~Ajay
4/4/19