Howl The Vagabond Blues Poem by babitha marina justin

A shifting vagabond
With a back-pack
A few books
A toilet bag full of
Lotions, lipsticks, kohl
Jeans, cotton tops
Rolls of lint, faded hues
Pencils
Pairs of frayed
underwear,
To hold weary
Fallen youth,
(Without taste)
Chipped broken nails
Charred skin
Far from being tanned
A bag full
Of nonsense
Confusion and poetry
Waiting for rain
A little romance
(surfing time zones
strange faces
stranger loves)
On railway platforms
Crowded bus stops
Luxury of rickshaws
Burning wallet
House-hopping
With a USB drive
In search of computers
To retch out
Intellectual nonsense
Which surfaces
On cheap
One-rupee
Laser prints.

I am not what I think
A break
An interlude
From thinking
Makes me what I am.
Human again