Last Chai, Circa 2016

23.15. The cafe murmurs

the last of broons are sliced,
their chips meet the floor, dusted
by one trusted cleaner, who mutters
local abuses to the drunkard
wailing Bollywood songs
to an unseen lover
far away

rice, trotters
maybe some mince
are handed out to aged women
waiting to hand out
daily gratitude

my tea is done, the saucer
holds a little spillover
imprinted on the table
is the stamp of the cup’s bottom
inked by trickled chai
and twenty years of mine



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