Urban Caterpillar by Minal Sarosh

On the gantry the red pigeon bead eye flashes. We halt.
An urban caterpillar, suddenly, pinched, picked,
still alive cars, scooters, bus, wriggling wangling,
caught in its hungry gray beak.
The wheels of the car ahead stop, an owl screeching scratching,
on the hot tar road, clinging, clawing,
a honk behind catches cold, coughing, cuffing.
And the rushing ambulance‘s beacon is wailing, warning,
death doesn’t seem to have time to wait for anyone.
Time puts an impatient foot on the cycle pedal, pausing, puffing.
I tune in the FM radio, a voice is jingling jangling
a song on packaged tour mountains and photogenic snow.
Then a stiff knuckle on my window, tapping, trying,
a pleading dirt speckled face and a beggar baby crying, cooing.
I wind down further, the glass of compassion
to hear her desert hunger screaming, shocking,
shattering the silence with which the pink bougainvilleas
on the dividers were growing, grinning,
at my tool room scowls, in this deafening machine world.