Road In The Morning Poem by Anil Kumar Panda

The sound of carts is not yet dead
Upon the tar coated road of the town;
That lies like a dead snake since my childhood;

They say it lives forever and eat
Grease and diesel direct from wheels;
Nothing is new in this town except the snake;

In the rain it wakes up polished
Ready to slither like a long breath;
It coils and falls around the neck of a turning;

Windows are opened one to let
The dead air inside as vendors fall
Asleep over heaps of vegetables with flies;

The beggars have proved that
There is always a chance to survive
As they clap in half hands for a few coins;

Like suppurating sores they
Hold seats by the side of the road
Feeling the cold tar with their underbellies.