BLUE TINTED GLASS

The world whizzed past
Outside the blue-tinted glass.
Inside, the waiters gossiped
And haggled over tips.
The clatter of empty coffee cups
And the smell of stale milk;
Of old men with long bags and false teeth;
Of poetics and politics;
Of hasty love letters
Scribbled on tissue paper.
The window was cracked and ugly
Flourescent street lights swayed.
The last man had left—
To brave the world again.
Perhaps it would rain.
Perhaps, it would not.

The empty platform echoed;
The last train just left.
A beggar, curled up on the bench
Dreamt of yesterday’s binge.
Amidst discarded polythene bags,
And cigarettes hurriedly stubbed out—
The smell of weary commuters
In yesterday’s clothes.
And noisy children hurried off to dirty toilets
By anxious impatient mothers.
Of waiting, and leaving
Of a weary silence and chaotic conversations.
The whistle could still be heard
Of journeys that would not happen.
Perhaps the tunnel would end.
Perhaps, it would not.

The room had darker corners,
And lighter moments.
The sheet was white and crumpled
From yesterday night.
It smelt of locked doors,
And of morning aftershave;
Of besmeared kohl
Beneath darker, stormier eyes.
Of high-heeled shoes
Kicked off on the floor;
Of forgotten dusty wine glasses,
And whispers in the dark.
The cigarette had died out.
The music had died down.
Perhaps she would live.
Perhaps, she would not.