Multi-coloured signs on shops
grudgingly hum in neon pitches.
The empty streets of ghost town
reluctantly wash the fog away
like a windscreen wiper,
sweeping foot by foot
as a spattering of stars walk the earth.
Under the rare street light
that bathes the bridge
the rickshaw puller sloppily
leans on his needle-injured hands
lifting a comatose finger, and a drugged eye
to tell the way towards a constellation.
A dog trots behind quickly drying up footsteps
sniffing his way through the ripe silence,
overflowing with late night drunkards
and early morning piety.
Faint smells of garbage rotting overnight
strike, just like the garbled brashness of
a lusty foursome: not pungent in fear or disgust
but pungent in skeletal remains of a city
that dies daily deaths.
As the buzzing streetlight performs a duet
with a far-off stick of a policeman on dead man’s watch,
the golden slivers that peek through the mist
reflect upon us, all our own constellations.