This nocturnal watchman yawns,
enwrapped in cozy woolens,
cycling towards his bed, after duty.
Every day, he’s alerted by
the frosty barks of street dogs,
running adjacent to his peddles,
objecting to his intrusion inside their terrain.
(Although, by now, he assumes that
he knows them by their names and vice versa.)
These dogs proceed their day
searching for leftover bits of
carbohydrates, fats and starch.
My feet are cold
in spite of being covered
within woolen socks.
and pain as I scratch them.
How a breakfast of Indian curries
and hot cardamom milk
perfuses my insides with warm aromas,
but my feet are adamant for summers.
On my muted television,
I can see the moving dimples and neck-veins
of this girl singing in the reality show.
I try to guess the song.
3: 27 pm
I make origami with my fresh hanky;
the shape of whole chicken meat
(often seen hanging at a butcher’s shop.)
I am never pleased to see the edible version of this origami.
I realize that suffering from cold and repetitively wiping the nose
makes the handkerchief start feeling like a sandpaper,
trying to scratch off paint from a pink wall.
And if you sneeze in your palms,
you form a dot-connecting game
of saliva dots.
10: 27 pm
Live light-bugs clutter with a street lamp,
while some deceased lie inside in a bundle.
I wonder if these playful bugs
will have a momentary life
and perish within the same lamp,
or will they get the chance to migrate
towards foreign lands
© Harrisham Minhas
Published in Muse India, 2014