The street yawns a new day
Pouring soot that smells of hope
As it slithers and wakes slowly
To grimy walls and early morning smoke.
We stretch in slanted morning sun,
Hanging freshly washed dreams on clothesline
Peeping just above meshed wires, neon signs
And kiosks selling fortunes for a dime.
The groggy flight down the stairs
To pick milk, news and the bread
Is greeted with swirling eddies
Of dust, scrap & stench instead.
Amidst morning tea stall stoves,
Mendicants & gaping passageways –
Life draped in diesel fume
Is a Hobson’s choice, a shifting sand dune.
© Dan Husain
March 9, 2005