My City

Let me write one on my city.
The one about a flock
of birds, talking off near Gateway.
The one about winding lanes
of Fort market.
Or the familiar beggars
and sugarcane stalls.

Let me write one,
for the esplanade road,
for the local trains,
the bhel puri, the vada pav,
and one for the tired city dweller,
floating home in the 6:15 VT crowd.

My city,
it is a place for poeple to sing,
for bombs to explode
and lives to stop.

My city,
It is a place for people to come,
a place for picked wallets.

My city,
a place for dreams to crash
upon the tetrahedrons
that reclaim land.
A place for hope to dwell.
A place for the humid sea breeze
to blow past mercurial synagogues.

It is a place for drain pipes,
and dried turds.
Old walls and new products.
Art galleries and starving artists.

It is a place for shimmering waves
to gently lap up
to the rocky coast of Haji Ali.

A place for hearts to grow,
souls to wither and memories to lose.

It is a place to sip masala chai,
while your dreams sail
on free salted skies.