The fried food
stall at the street corner
Doubtlessly
is my favorite joint
Every
evening, my legs are mesmerized
To turn that
way, my will pulverized
Propelled by
the pungent pull
Floating to
my nostril’s particular point!
These days I
find the pakodas visibly swollen
No less an
authority than the Prime Minister
Has endorsed
selling them as employment
Truly they
provide patrons immeasurable enjoyment
I wonder why
he didn’t bat for the beverage
Samosas see
in it something sinister!
They know
(told by the honorable himself)
That in a
railway station he used to sell tea
We samosas were
the natural companion
Pakodas were low cast, ask any historian
Like the
Dalit and downtrodden in society
On them
often you’d find likes of flea!
How the
times have been a-changing
When bullet
trains as blurred lines zoom
Though
sidelined samosas will attend
The senior
travelers if they don’t mend
They will be honored as pathpointers
But the
flower of Pakoda’s fortune will bloom, bloom!
“Hey! You may
divide the platform between you.”
Yelled the
chutney sans top covers
You may, if
you like, call me a flirt
For I go
with any fried guy, it doesn’t hurt
Hop from one
party to another like a frog
Platform or
palace I have thousand lovers!
Xavier Bage
Tues, March
20, 2018
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