He buttons up his trousers and walks
Out of the city broth. The sun has set,
Walks out across the street and steps
Into the pub, then drives back home.

Night.
Windows closed.
Doors bolted.
Cigarettes, papers, computer, pens.

Mind surges like the sea.
But there are no hounds in the city.
Just green stockings across the road.

Dabs words on pages. X’s them all.
15 sheets and one cartridge in the basket.
Men kill their cigarettes in ash-trays.
No more monuments. They live
With a statutory warning.

Black shapes, tiny, on spotless sheets:
Filled at the midnight hour.
And pencil marks and crosses,
And arrows that do not show the way.

What are the critics for?
Let them fill pages.
- Sushil Soni