Tuesday, March 27, 2007

Com - muting

All are sitting in a huddle
I get in as it hurtles
‘Good morning!’
No answer given
All niceties forgotten
My balance is shaken
I sit in the last row
My head bent low
Unceremoniously
Lips curled morosely
Amidst the huddled figures
Mind roaming in high gears
The vibration
Of the moving contraption
Spill all over through my buttocks
Sitting like two estranged bullocks
Partly from sleep so gay
The girls ahead sway
As the van trundles away
The man at the wheels
Drives as he feels
Reeling from the lanes like
drunken Mighty Mike
The boy sitting next
drums on the seat, vexed
fearing his job being axed.
Then the van breaks tires screeching
We pitch forward bouncing,
The bobbing heads banging,
Laptops plummeting,
Cars in the rare honking!
And then nothing!
We settle down unthinking!
The pilot is smiling!
Sorry!
Not to worry!
We ARE in a hurry
And ARE ready for the flurry,
No matter what it does carry.
We rush past Romans in toga
And hear the Indian raga
Of unwritten saga
And turn to Rigga.
Past the rows of splendid villas
Past fences of drooping bougainvillas
Past the smoking chimneys
Past the crawling companies
Round the junction
Full of nagging premonition
Just too fast
Not a way to last
As the girls nod in frenzied sleep
As the brakes squeal in slush deep
The van does stop
I make a hop
No glance stolen
No chance taken
Deliberately
Silently
I get down.

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