At the traffic signal

Prufrock no longer measures his life with coffee spoons;
Instead, he counts the cars at the traffic signal,
And wonders why no one notices the light that rebels-
The one that flickers on and off, randomly.
He wonders why everyone sits glum in their cars,
And whether they would forget to laugh and love,
And whether they would find someone waiting for them,
In the death-grey apartments, to where they are headed.
Prufrock wonders whether it is cold outside
And wonders what happened to the fog,
That used to curl lovingly and sleep
Outside the cafes.
He watches the smog, soiled and outcast,
Press its nose against the window
With barely concealed hostility.
Purfrock avoids the mirror and the receding hairline,
And the wrinkles and the monologues,
That used to trouble him so.
He is silent now, his battles left un-fought,
His victories unimagined;
His destination is now determined
By strangers that sit before their laptops.
He no longer worries about the love songs,
And what the ladies think of him.
The middle aged ladies
No longer talk of Michelangelo now.
They sit in the chauffer driven cars
Too timid to look out from behind their painted faces-
They have ceased to matter to anyone.
Purfrock wonders what opera, what party, awaits them
Or whether they too are heading
Towards the safe anonymity
Of the death-grey apartments.

About Abhishek

I will let the blog speak for itself...or, at times, for me. View all posts by Abhishek

2 responses to “At the traffic signal

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