Tinker of the milk man whose tampering
has broken daily, fresh water records.
The chime of the fruit seller cart where
the fruits were painted in the morning.
The gas cylinders unloaded nearby when
you had ordered one, a fortnight ago.
The newspaper thrown at your door by
the boy who vanishes into thin air daily.
The school bus honking, when the lunch
of kids is still made by the half-maid.
The laundry man dropping your clothes
wearing them before he returns to you.
The fish monger who pedals his bicycle
with lot of fresh ice in his long dead fish.
The lime pickle vendor with his jarring
having a mix of all except those lemons.
The mat seller who dusts his rugs for you
claiming the dust was picked in Kashmir.
The fire engine arriving at the front door
to contain raging fires at the back door.
The crows cawing out for their daily food
Voice of a city, a craving now, left in life.