by Thoithoi O’Cottage

Belching out black poisons they have inbreathed since Monday
Tired trains nose noisily into the Metro Station Hotel
To wind their machineries for the next week:
The dirty hotel lady into her greasy glasses
Pours measures of tea for the wise men of grey theory
And puts the 100ml glasses on the table
Before the protruded eyes skilled in measurement–
Your tea is so tasty
so you will be filed– you are a number.
(Very simple — merely a number!)

The universe is crumpled up in the cumbersome
vendour of coloured newspapers
One over another– piles and piles crumpled up;

starving children
some measures each in satchels hanging heavily down their necks
Hawker in the hotel, to passers-by outside.
Pieces of yesterday’s newspapers trampled, on the stamped soiled floor.


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