Hangdog eyes embellish a black motorbike,
that while canoodling the pathway,
gauchely criss-crosses the bourgeois clique,
of this lifeless habitat.
It is made to halt, at an angry turn,
by an innocent-looking patrolman.
The tired eyes, scrutinize,
a virtuous license, a sinless badge.
And then look up.
The tattered badge,
ashamed and jealous,
of that patrolman, who doesn’t have a face
but only an abstruse structure,
veiled in a gloomy darkness.