Capital intensive

Doctors prescriptions are read only
By apothecaries in street’s corners.
They master the doctor’s scribbles

With large size imagination about
Where letters slip away or lead to.
Law makes them capital intensive

The letters all in capitals large size.
What a blow on a chemist’s pride,
Now as twisted as large intestines.


Rice pounding

The women took turns with the shoulders
As they went in and went out , in the hole.

The afternoon resounded with their thuds
As  we closed our eyes in a pretended nap.

Where we sat there was hardly difference.
The husk turned out to be a life’s content.

Bus shelter

Bus shelter stood with holes of eyes
Open to a sky that held possibilities

Of rows of stars on moonless nights.
The shelter did not care for bus dust

Coming from the horizon on a wind.
Right , the bus conductor would say

Glamorously, his leather square bag
Hanging loosely with ticket moneys.

This April is not the cruelest

April seemed to play practical jokes
That would sprinkle rain on gutters

When we expected police brutality
With reproductive jokes about lilacs.

The unseasonal rain was  sky-crack,
The wisecrack that pulled  teeth out

And a power proof of a transformer
Like a fart joke by our oldest uncle.

The randy sky played a bawdy joke
With a slightly cracked up crop field

Playing dirty by a memory’s desires
Stirring its weeds with a spring rain.