Here

Taxi Drivers

Their cotton garbs vary

As their bleached countenances—

From frisky indulgence to dullness;

As their household carriages—

From welcoming to near-broken.

Wielding their whip-keys,

Each one, idly, mounts, whips

To one’s turn of houseful chore.

Monday

The weekly recess hits so:

The taxi-stand the kind tree-roofed;

The smooth plastered round concrete-base,

The lounge base smoothened shiny

Countless bottoms polished it—

Twice at a time, sit and stand.

The day to idle out to the camps and bazaar,

The piazzas scorching, dusty among melees.

Gayu Restaurant

The paunchy one’s domain,

Packed by his grace of two tools:

Welcoming jolly mood, pranks

And real high cholesterol serves

That many prefer even these days.

The air gives off an imagery,

How a Chinese rest may look like

Filled with his loud mediocre Chinese.