ROOM WHERE POETS MEET

After many pointless words spoken, what remains is... a stained coffee cup or two, a few crumbled
biscuits, and a smell of burnt out spirits.
A prosaic poem it is, you see!
As the winter evening
Curls itself round the poles
Of hazy street lamps,
And touches the goosebumps on the bare arms of old and unruly tramps,
The smoky room in
An obscure basement,
Where pseudo poets meet,
Is left like a tired railway station...
Smudges of blue under the eyes, a crooked smile like a wedge of pain, driven into her deep, empty core,
an old ramp model who has gone out of fashion.

Sharmila Pupu Mitra
Publicado en RavenCageZine30