Poem

These times do not attract me anymore
Like old women, like faded shoeboxes
These days do not deserve love. Sometimes
In the wintry pilgrimages in this ghost town
The nefarious breeze resurrects itself from
The whirlwind of these lazy Sunday afternoons

Time and again, I have seen this town
In these faded plaques of memory. In those days
You could play with fire and dust. Now people
They do not speak of the monsoons anymore
Or throw caution to the wind. As ma says
These times are bad. You evade their company
Like the gazes of whores

Instead we talk about things which don’t matter
The insignificant ramblings of life and death; Or
The eternal promise of a poem at the oddest hour
With which I’m smitten.