A Post-Modern, Stricken, Bleeding World Poem by Milind Padki

The vast green sheet glass cuts away the surroundings, the community,
Does not blend well with the glace'-pink stone.
The presence, against the weather, though, is BOLD. They bring
Ready-flowered shrubs in spring, no time to wait (They
Are beautiful. The building is a vase!) .

Many come here, for interviews, with acid in their stomach lining. They
Carry smart, ninety dollar briefcases. Often,
The student life-deprivation, late nights, cheap food
Shows on the face. And the anxiety.

Our receptionist is nice to them, shows them to the rest-rooms
Right away. The committee meets in large fascist halls
With dark tall authoritarian chairs at the head of tables.
A religious wounding takes place. Most do not survive, smile
Wanly at the receptionist while leaving.

But the Chinese, with tight shapely behinds,
Exquisite skins, blazers in Perfect taste, pronounced accent
(A sign of technical competence, this!)
Get hired quickly: Must be academic pedigree or the shapely
Behinds. I wonder what happened to all the Indians.

They then start coming in with bright plastic containers.
Upon microwaving, the room fills up with the smell
Of Jumbo prawn and glutinous rice.

The Indians make a face. "There you go, again! "
They seem to be saying to each other.
xxx