A concrete mixer drooled last night.
Half a wall has ambled down
from grass-gravelled impasse to junction-side
by a rail, where droppings of a Thane local are mazed away
from the same road, trek
to the same homes – nests
in a million-roomed corridor past open grounds.
Here, summer is yet not a migrant bird,
lingers,
a rung bell through December nights while we
with our dry tongues, tongue unstuck syllables
that fell from skin and sheets’ disunion,
incanted into a clay-baked day.
On ballast-side a pigeon pecks
on chunks of puke,
martial feline prepares assault:
metaljacket rattlesnake drums arrival on iron –
fauna flees to corridor,
to commotion again,
where flatpiled flag-gatherers sway
by walled street.
An MLA’s artiste friends spy through tinted glass
for colour.
They also disagree with the Bard
on the subject of names,
return to their scant 11-floor multi-homes –
now noodled together with wire arms;
our dreams are distant satellites
a prepubescent beard sabotaged by easy-shave blades –
they graze, drive inwards the scant,
force pus in normalcy.