I crane my neck to see the sky above
From the boxed grill of my city windows life
I see bits of it, shreds of blue, wisps of blue
Flaccid, fatigued, drained of the dew of hope
Long lusted for oceans long passed over
Propped up by concrete pillars, creatively used as dwellings
My eyes gaze down, lust is an old friend, love an old dream
They slither slowly with relish, and stop at a bus stop
Today there is a new diva.
A new plastic tautly stretches across, a new smile
New eyes, new lips, new freshness, new bosom
New twirl of the hair, new aroma on new plastic.
If my mind could be a bus stop
And my soul a plastic film.
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Comments about this poem (Sunday Morning by Hardik Vaidya )
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