Four and a Half Days. Bombay.

There is a hole in the table where the bottomless glass sits
Beaming at the other cups
On the wood, plastic, stone, bone, blood –who knows?— surface
Its circle stain yellower than the rest.
A child – A man? Woman? Nobody? – sucks at the straw
Holds its breath
Then blows into the liquid city.
For a second every face looks up and watches
As the brick perimeter of an ancient sky travels up the tube
Then back;
Little bubbles entrusted with the tops of St. Xavier’s College and Victoria Terminus
Make their vibgyor descent behind the line of slanting trees.
A dog stretches.
On a bike that no one is riding
A woman sitting side-saddle watches fleas spring from its back;
They make their way to the cross-legged clerk’s typewriter
A game of hopscotch – “I, the undersigned”.
In this city which inhales and exhales simultaneously
Spilling; it gathers
All at once
Invested and uninterested
I have come to enjoy taking the subway every morning.

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