Wafer-Thin

Wearing a straitjacket
you come out in open.
This was a black day.
You were not invited.

The economy smells of stale fever.

A pungent smoke rises
from the joints.

A decision drifts. Scare of
paper bomb stills―
the flow of tea.

There was a party.
People come and go. Skullcaps
galore. White on brown sugar.

There is no love lost between us.

Satish Verma