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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