Saturday, 13 June 2015

The drivers' room

There's no one here now,
12.43 pm on Saturdays
is an out-of-bound story
and out of character too,
just the illusion of coolness
spun by a fan rebelling 
against asbestos heat,
bunk beds stained with careless tea
men-less shirts 
in suicidal suspense 
broomless floors
lost matchsticks and ash
an office, nevertheless
and I
driver of an editor's car
member of a union
of three
wander on roads 
armed with highway code
shoo away the pedestrian
make way for a moment 
locked in amber
abandon work
and submit 
to blessed slumber. 

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