I squint like the hostel cat
I book a bike thrice
The hour is too grainy
Neighborhood some dull demise
You won’t stop calling
Your iron will is forged
I call a cab to see you
My purse is fucking scorched
Once full of writer’s woes
Quiet rum, high music, and lows
The night has taken a U-turn
The roundabout is close
You say, you watching dinner smolder
You say, it the only shop alive
I feel October is colder
Than rolls when they arrive
The driver pulls over for gas
I disembark to look around
There’s a bunch of guys in t-shirts
There’re trucks that are highway-bound
One looks back thorough and stares
He pretty in his cart
Am I wary of his wares?
He ducks inside to part
In less than half an hour
We are at our colony gate
I see you in a Fabindia kurta
Navy blue on a golden wait
I laugh through the sleeping street
You light up like a wire
We hold hands, we skittle
Like kids met some supplier.