One of those days in an unkempt city.

The city is a refrigerator,

It’s cool and the lettuce freezes,

into a static, usefulness,

as it lies dormant for days,

rolling into weeks.

This lettuce is a good lettuce,

It was born at the right place,

slightly wilted,

but remains crispy enough for an easy caesar salad.

Is this what we’re turning into?

As we nurse stagnancy headaches,

chasing satisfaction in measured ways.

The neon traffic isn’t glamorous,

and these chilly crowds,

seem drained of colour,

as they wiggle for room

in a withering, domestic space.

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I miss the freshness of those old,

fried vegetables and spicy stews,

as they changed with the seasons.

And the way we’d find fun in a

4*4 concrete square,

hopping into hopscotch,

squabbling without a care.

Sometimes I miss a place,

I’ve never gotten to know,

only faint traces remain,

here and there,

in old movies,

in faded memories,

in conversations with my grandparents.

Even they can’t bear simply sitting still,

even if it’s the softest chair.

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