One evening I happened to ride
a bus full of bearded men.
They all spoke a language
I could not understand.
For a reason unknown to me
they remind me of curry powder.
The strong aroma of the spices
tickled my nose,I opened
the windows, inhaled
the fresh gale of the green outside.
Now these bearded men,they
were laughing,talking in low
voices,as if guarding a holy secret
when they are the only ones
who can understand each other.
Soon,to a crowded district we arrived,
"Let's eat curry,man!",exclaimed
one. They all agreed in chorus,yes!
Then all the bearded man
all hopped of the bus,just right
in front of an old Indian restaurant
swarming with bearded man
and a man named Ranju said
"Singh is King!", the restaurant.
YOU ARE READING
The Daily Commute
PoetryWe are constantly on a move. Going out, going home. And every day is a new story.op Let's recount the moments We spend on the road.
