Ode to Lutyens' Dew

The morning dew

lounges in her hammock

at Connaught Place,

it's still winter, a Sunday!

I search for coffee,
but skip breakfast, or did I?

Wow, I did jump a few signals,

to enjoy the smiling traffic

-- a few vintage cars

and dogs of Lutyens' Delhi.

Delhi and a Democratic Irony

I seek the obvious,

the irony of a 

monsoon morning,

as I leave the lawns

down south,

to the loan sharks

high up on a steep

pecking order.

I seek salvation

among humid, smiling faces,

even as a storm brews, 

in and around

Lutyens' reminders of slavery,

a few signage bright and yellow,

which herald sunrise, sunset,

and democratic bonded labour.​

My day just slit up!

Here comes

the last act of

my work holiday,

I watch the world

honk and vroom into a

melancholy sunset.

Thank you, luxury.

The little mercy,

my gift for a day

—a slit in the

blinds, bloody binds,

it expands my horizon.

From dour LCD walls,

to a greyish, Lutyens' green.