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(26 Dec 1969, yet to kick the bucket. / Mahuva, Gujarat, India.)

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The wheels keep turning

Change gears.
1st to 2nd then back to first.
The process is endless till luck turns into dust.
Old men crossing.
Ants armies of them, pedestrians of Mumbai.
Red lights, Orange lights, Green flashes.
Squeezed like jelly between huge buses.
Couples smooching.
Sun setting.
Sea bathing.
Cars are flooding.
Drivers are honking.
They are talking, to their lost longings.
Lanes are a cutting.
It's freedom flowing.
Meandering of masses.
Through sentinels of policemen.
Watching, waiving, whistling, staring.
The behemoth is moving.
Every one is reaching.
Halting, screeching, yelling, abusing, and enjoying.
Beggars begging.
Hawkers selling.
Wheels keep turning.

Submitted: Thursday, March 14, 2013


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Comments about this poem (A Poet's Prize by Hardik Vaidya )

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  • Sahdvat Harsen (3/14/2013 11:01:00 AM)

    Nice, fast moving and punchy. Feels like I'm in the taxi

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