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Sometimes I Sip Sooty Coffee

On my way to home, there are moments when I casually sip

a dark sooty coffee, ashen black to remove the stubborn

charcoal stains from  my green heart, legacy of a sheltered

sub-urban life, I meander through the curvy narrow lanes,

stretching wide from top like sagging bosoms but contained

through metallic wired frilled brassieres and net fences. 

Streets can run crazy wild too, trees must be primed, petals

must be counted appearances have always mattered.

Holding the erect blank cup, for it has no colors of flags

no slender waited figures of  pouted mythical women

I measure my hours with careless sips of coffee

scratching my head as to which way to turn, as I am

bad in directions, I knock on several dilapidated

neatly kept homes, gosh they all look same, even the

garbage outside bear uncanny resemblances, I try to

wait outside several cobbled  streets with long

Victorian names King George Edward Philemon

second or third or may be fourth, scratching my head,

I wonder whether to turn left or right, go straight

or turn back, I see random common faces trudging along

taking  heavy steps who have similar frugal existences,

mundane chores, ordinary lives not literary enough

to pen in Queen’s English, as I wait for my turn on

King Henry Pokemon fourth or fifth bus stand

I deliberately miss my Peter-Pan as from the corner

of my eye through hazy blurred glasses, a spectacle

extraordinaire out of a rising chemical smoke of 

a burning cheap plastic, I catch a site so rare, a dainty

disheveled vision of a homeless man ogling at me through

his piercing eyes, winking at me, In a single moment we

have an understanding  of seven births and deaths we

both don’t make any effort to find our homes.

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