i love seeing people gathering
under the flyover when it rains
even the puddles are together
shifting foot for one more
the lightening is the only line
and thunder the only slam of a door
the yellow polka dots umbrella
is next to the plain black one
and they talk about how dark
it is getting
and about home and distance
closer somewhere
bhajis frying around water waist high
but we will stop for a bite
and carry the smell of shoulders
touching inside the stall with us
and chai is the only word
to fog glasses on our eyes
and we are huddled up closer
because bodies are colder and
friction of breaths are matchsticks
we can stay warmer together
hands in the pockets will come out
and hold our fingers in scrutiny
figuring all the gaps they have left
when they held and there is a sad song
playing somewhere of rain and the thing
gathered up in a word like wringing out
the two ends of the wet shirt
and feel it grow heavy
loosening from our skin rheumatic and free
