Wednesday, November 4, 2015

At the end of the day

I step out of my air-conditioned coffin.
Street boys hammer drums, 
the devil knows why.
Roadside woofers, 
like black holes, 
blast distorted music.Fuckin' drivers leapfrog signals,
nearly knocking me down.
Crackers go off on my tail,
precursor to the advent of hell. 
I rugby my way to the station, 
past hawkers and jaywalkers
I sweat it out in a crammed local. 
I sweat it out in a snaky bus queue.
I sweat it out in drunken traffic. 
Two hours too late, 
I reach home, lose my head.
My pet wags her little tail.
I growl at her, sending her off. 
"How was your day, darling?" 
My face looks like burnt toast. 
A hushed silence descends.
The air-conditioner comes on.
I set off again,
this time on a guilt trip.



© Prashant C. Trikannad


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