November nights

November nights short poem

When the night train leaves the terminal,
It’s body cold as a corpse,
It’s lights alive as chickens in
The butcher’s cage,
I sit bunched up in my
Flea market shawl beside the closed windows.
I play that game of counting stations
Like we used to when we
Headed home the three of us
After the annual shopping spree.
I count the colours on the ladies’ drapes
To make the most of the one and half hour of
Serpentine itinerary.
At times I strike up a conversation on
The rising prices with the woman
Who sews petticoats at the garment factory.
At times I stay awake munching on salted peanuts
Sold by the man who lost an arm
Trying to ride a speeding train.
And at times I just stare –
At the middle class homes
Where most probably the father
Is busy at this hour with the daughter’s homework.
Just like you and me
Two decades ago.

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3 Comments on "November nights"

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Ravindran Govindaraju

# Brings me home a nostalgia of having spent my time at Agra/Bbsr and Howra.for Those trains ,with lonely cursing hours,watching woes stricken faces ,and those hurrying souls..
” playing the games of counting stations ” sounds me a very true line of our
desperation.Thank you for sharing .


I absolutely loved the imagery. Few poems take me places I want to stay in a while longer, yours did. Thank you


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