The red, green, yellow street signs flash at me.
With trembling hands, I honk, whisk.
The faint neon lights of the city flicker and blaze.
I am steering my way to the rhythm and pace of vehicles
Moving sideways, up, down and center.
I am using the break incessantly,
Cursing every twisted move I make,
Every street sign I am unable to follow,
Every wrong turn I end up with.
I am riding, in bumps and bolts,
While the neon lights, the streets fly past me
In synchronized movements, cooked with frenzy and oblivion.
In the blinding maze of uncertain miles,
Wild bugs screech inside my stomach
Make cracking movements, as my legs race up the accelerator.
I am shoving the car, its wheels and our bodies
Into the city’s farthest boundaries, mapping each road,
Each turn, each exit, rolling and stuffing them in my pockets,
The wheels crushing footprints like dismantled crumbs.
I am chewing my pie slices of proximity,
Hatching the intrigue of flying distant realms
While the city calls me out in broken syllables.
I have a splintered grin, wave at the hoisted hands,
At the outstretched fingers, the harmonic choir.
The streets are winding and long,
Embracing highways and horizons under abstract skies.
I weigh out my latitudes and longitudes of leaving.
The default settings of my memories,
They concede with the journey.
I collect them, stuff them in cardboard boxes,
Push them to the boundaries of nowhere.
I am shoving the car in the dead end of the city.
Shattered, in splinters and shards.
Down the quiet, grey streets, I drive like an old ghost,
In the break of dawn, flashlights blink like omens.
Lopa Banerjee. October 20, 2014