Fly away,poetry!
Flee!
The sweet words of a sonnet would maim and ****.
The hearts grow cold as tombstones
Where your words are etched
So old women can weep over the ground.
The salt of their wounds watering the patch of earth
So nothing can grow there
For centuries.
Poetry, you should not be murdered by hasty hands.
This is your pardon
From the pen
that would capture you, and leave you in your humiliation.

Sad, black record spins on and on
The street is quiet, the wine is gone.
I fall asleep on the sofa,alone,
Waiting for a call from home.
The city sounds are muted still,
No one to rob, no one to ****.
Bars are vacant, a taxi drives slow
Toward the place a passenger knows.
I sleep on and on , through this purple night
With dreams and scenes, and city lights.
Waiting for one call from home;
On a sofa, all alone.

I hear the sounds of the city I the distance.
Cars, truck and auto rickshaws  screaming for space on the bypass.
Far from my terrace they seem to be
Yet they are close to enough that the breeze brings their fumes.
A shawl is spread beneath me
To keep my clothes from the dust that is not washed away up here.
Up here, where my eyes can barely see the treetops.
Up here, where the sun is strong and browning my fair skin.
Up here, where I am  exposed and unseen.
The worries of all my differences are erased when I alight the steps to my rooftop.
It doesn't matter that I don't speak Bengali .
It doesn't matter that I'm sick of Dal and the Baigan Bharta is too spicy.
It doesn't matter that I am a foreigner and always will be.
I am celebrated by the the crows and mosquitos that find solace above Kolkata.
In turn, I can celebrate the fact that I've found a corner where my foreignness is not offensive nor inviting.
It just is, and I'm just me; far above the dusty streets and the stray dogs that keep me up a night with their howls.