Dry city dust has settled on days,
Poetry lost among blazing computer
screens,
Eaten by crawling traffic millipedes.
Time has stretched long, grown limp and
loose like an old guitar string,
Between weary water cooler jokes and
humourless cubicle gods,
Roaring generators and sticky moist skin,
An unsettling complacency and a restless
calm.
Too slow, too fast, stuck yet pacing.
Under the unrelenting sun, a sepia yellow
has crept into the world.
Far away,
The monsoon showers of my childhood, a
memory.
Pothole fish, a summer dream.
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