we're walking on this side of the road.

last night's rain buried mirrors here

that this day's sun must've dug up.

like pawns moving across an old city's

checkered present we walk on the road.

we cannot walk side by side because

we've to squeeze out of the way of busy

cars with white, green, yellow, red nameplates,

buses bursting with uniformed children,

and men tripsying on their bikes,

their hoots, their calls, screams, looks,

the potential of flesh hurting in the air,

their eyes the size of our winces.

the drunkard is folding his newspaper

over the unwashed hair of his sleeping wife.

quarter-bottles lay scattered by the trunk

of the tree around which the footpath grew.

kids my age sell garden hoses, belts, wallets,

earphones, lemon sodas, ice creams, berries.

a boy of eight asks our help to cross the road

and we help him, his downturned eyes, and

his impatient feet. we're on the other side

of the road now and everything is rushing at us.

i think i saw my future by the tree trunk.

i have a hunch that i'll sleep through tomorrow.

my friend says her parents wouldn't have

let her cycle if she lived here as a child.

i think it's because of the men.

she says it's because of the road.

~ ajay

5/7/2023