By Pragya Dhiman
she lacks abundance accepted rejection a
second-nature degree in surefire failure.
why is she limited to the cityscape this
neon prison that flickers in and out of
her existence like a dying heart streets
pulled off the Indian map every time
the power goes out.
delhi winters are no joke but the humour
lies in the city smoke and the naked people
unhoused and unclothed undressed under
the weather understood to be misunderstood.
she is remainders of promises reminders of what
is possible poverty is a moral tale sung to urban
children the new monster under the bed the
darkness of the half open closet posit brown skin
and white bones pit them and light it all on fire
at least arson leaves nothing behind but ash.
delhi winters are too cold anyway who will
miss another faceless beggar off the street.