7 In All Poem by abhro bhattacharjee

7 in all in red on black
on wheels a few, the lower middle pack
the chasis of strange geometry though
the buldge, the curves
a strange feminine show

up ahead or down the lane
the prescribed palate, all strewn plane
from dusk till dawn and even late
the resident chauffer and his one track fate

of canine habbits, the teretorial game
the feline structure and the slithering frame
although they drive on the freeway through
haggering and jumping yet mishaps few

by the show of hands to the googling eyes
always too many so they all strive
the stamping feet on the pedals tight
the screech, the scrape
and the rubber burns to pry

7 in all painted in bold
yet right in front the inferno cold
a dozen or more already in
makes you wonder
'how would i get out of here
where would i literally fit in

but worry not o' friend o' mine
for the inferno has a special child
hands on wheel, his eyes on road
cribbing and courteous the seasoned rouge

the shifting butts and the alternate frames
cosy or crampled no signs of pain
a history book on every face
since anno domini, the adjusting race

the 2 stroke hum, the stuffy air
the drunken neighbour, a pungent flair
the con eye view through the grilled pane
the swooping sedans and the overcrowded shame

the sourjoun soon shall come to an end
yet seeked and stretched
by my guardian friend
ir regular stops, throttle in between
mounting down
the pretence of dusting one self clean

land ho mine, so get down i
skip and a jump and the following eyes
7 in all still shining bright
7 in all you pay the price