Traffic Island Cop Poem by Pradip Chattopadhyay

Just one wave of his hands
The long lines of vehicles stop
Sun burnt rain drenched
Emotionless he stands
The traffic island cop!
You curse him if the wait is long
He’s just a faceless object
Like a post stands erect
In a fast lane his whistle blows
The traffic slows….

He has home, a wife
Away from traffic a life
A face without uniform
A corner to keep him warm
A vastly different island
Where he hates to command
And hopes no whistle brings to stop
The happiness of a traffic island cop!