Cold gust unbuttons my warmth;
surprisingly, I spot a new restaurant
serving crepes. I am pigeon about
a crepe is. Wonder if it has crumbs
and if they're precise, contaminating
to tidy degrees;

a strange invigoration switches itself
to the sour vehicular horns, that reminds me
of a child who wanted candy off the floor
but was restrained by the threat of imprisonment
as the train cut through Kerala. But the insistence
of the horns is more insistent, their peal
course-correcting to petty nose squinting.
I can hear the metallic lip curl,
the engine revolting at the judgment of the pedestrian
(an opinion of which I'm innocent)
of a vocal car as a wanton idiot, the kind
that still believes that cheetos will come back.