Ripples in the gutters,
The tired raindrops kissing
The unpurged dross
Lying unaddressed
In the alleys of my neighbourhood.
Hoarded days,
Like municipal waste
Has managed to camouflage
Those morsels
Of my castaway memories —
That I had chucked out
Of my window fringes.
The wheel-barrow is full
With the snacks I offered
Obnoxiating the fiesta
Of the efficient scavengers
Who now seem pained
With the antidotes of my melancholy.
Worms penetrate me
From the gutters.
