Upon the grey city,
Where headlights wink
Past stoned traffic lights,
Kicking up histories from the Mahananda’s throat,
Rough like art on handmade paper.
Anxiety reigns insomniac eyes
Threading voices round false faces
On which stoic memories trip
Full to the lips with local beer.
Watery feet open the regular ball
On tear-stained asphalt that sparkles,
With little raindrops sliding down asbestos roofs –
their million sighs hushed brutally.
Assailed by dreams
that wash neon flashes with insolent stares,
From cracked truck mirrors,
Pirouetting past lawless pubs,
While it rains quietly, nightlong.