Smoke

Through the heads
Of an old lady
Raw and wrinkled
And the drunkard
Down the road
A gait so crooked,
That children of
Lost innocence,
With eyes like
Empty goblets of ambrosia,
And second hand soft-toys
From the Memsahib,
Look.
Look at the
Hollow black of activists
(Ray-Ban it reads)
And the dead white
politicians,
(neatly starched) a ray
Of Gray
Appears through the window.
And they called it
Perspective.

Four Submissions and the Air-conditioner