Modern old poet is seriously engaged with cats
And their naming as they lay curled into streets
Like fog on window panes blown by  nameless.

(They had snarled all night in their dark sleeps
The kiddens held by scruffs of their silky necks
In cat dreams purring softly by a street corner)

In our basement there may be breakfast tables
Laid out for the hostel students with the diluted
Lentil soup ,major pulse saved by greedy owner.

Watchman sits under felt cap and Nepali accent
Majorly engaged with shooing away street dogs
Licking the eaten plates in the basement corner.

Clatter of steel plates continues with  hot sun
But now these are preludes to day’s activities,
Yellow buses  taking kids to reluctant schools.

There is priest out on scooter with brow marks.
He will be speaking to the dead by the lakeside,
Moist souls hovering over the skies of the lake.

(remembering T.S. Eliot’s poem Morning at the window)

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