For T.S. eliot who keeps popping up here and there in my thoughts

Each afternoon
I
trudge
through
hot heavy metal afternoons through
heaps of people
and
clusters of auto-rickshaws-

Looking at pictures of
homely dogs on Advertisement boards,

ignoring a reporter with a microphone,

Forgetful of love
And fearful of traffic on weekdays.

There is sun
And there is shadow
And none is isolated
And I am often sun and often shadows,
Never one.

there are no poets
there are so many patrons.

And they are so overbearing,
whatever little fabric you own
they destroy.

No hurry please.
It is already time.
No hurry at all.

I
am
in
a poem.

I have no aspirations.

What good yearning is,
if it is for anything lesser than

a boat in the mediterranean

Or a headrest
In a long flight.

drones
fly in the sky
Sheltered by sun, smirking on the river-
Proud like Abraham.

A poem is an Issac, a blunt comparison-
Like the back of a knife
Like the fag end of a cigarette.

Good night mr. Eliot.
Good night from the afternoon
From the dust which moves, taking the shape of the wind,
From the ambulances which swoon,
From the jazz I have forgotten….

One wants to put in the word “soon” somewhere
But we are at it. It is time. It already is since a long time.

Good night . Good night. Good night.

[ Anchit writes in English, Hindi and Bhojpuri. he can be contacted at anchitthepoet@gmail.com. The featured image is a painting of T.S.Eliot by Patrick Heron]