She’s like a crowded Indian city-road up!
A million alleys crawling to the skies
and decks of leaves like those houses,
where you window-watch neighbour’s TV shows
while caressing the baby in their arms.
There are flowers too one here, one
there – temporary pools of sanity.
Here,
the barbets don’t sing and the owls wake at night,
the eagles eat meat and the parrots love colour
the crows work hard and the pigeons need an asylum.
On my raintree of uncountable houses,
they live wing to wing like brothers –
shaming the road they live on.