by Arik Mitra
The dead grass,
a lost towel hangs upon a nameless
railing.
Two bamboo ladders go up to the
light-posts,
competing to reach up to dim
orange light.
A pressure cooker hisses forth;
Announcements happen
of distant sighs — of the not-havings
of life.
Ambition fails to suffer in silence;
yet their names do not live longer
than smoke.
© 2021 Arik Mitra All rights reserved.
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