Good Times a poem by Rajiv Lather
Dawn, magic city materializes
from smoggy wasteland. Wide avenues
lined with big black bubbling bottles,
leaning tower of pizza and not-so burgers.
On low-roofed, trampoline-paved sidewalks
our future, with oxygen sucking tobacco
dangling from mouth
smokes signals to the other side
of life. As brazen as invisible lingerie, flux
from opposite poles charges the air.
Air so sharp, that hair in upturned noses
traces history of spewing progress.
With sun at its peak,
melt at sight of predatory felines.
In the afternoons,
mobile wombs coalesce in painting rooms,
giving birth to picturesque masterpieces.
Evenings and nights -
hearing-aid bites and dark-glasses lights,
in colliding collages of detached limbs,
advertise a good time.