The engine of a car
nauseates to
swallow the hoot of a horning truck
a gatekeeper drugged by sleep
watches over a dozen cars
parked in porches
numbered from 517 to 625
whistling to thump
the bamboo cane
as tall as him,
snores ascend and descend
like the notes of music
designed to disturb
the hushed whispers
of a twenty something
lost in a midnight chit-chat
oblivious of the ears
the room has grown
since it mistress learned to
memorize tales about women
who burn bras and break homes.
The Delhi air has something
about it that keeps you awake
sleep hides behind
the streetlamp at the
crooked corner of our street
its yellow light is an eve teaser
that has followed me
into my bedroom
only to be slapped by
the white walls of a door
as I fiddle with a gadget
born to bow to me
I see the night slipping away
like the mud I tried to hold
in my fist,
when we went making castles
and five year plans
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