The talk was desultory and trite
In that squalid eatery.
The oil splattered wall paper hung down in greasy strips
And smoke billowed forth from purple lips.
On a three legged chair the owner snored
People hunched over tables absolutely bored
Punching numbers on cellphones, deleting memories stored.
An ancient clock with broken hands lazily ticked.
For lack of anything better to do, a man with tangled hair
His fingers licked.
[As though the licking would magically untangle his hair. ]
Others wrangled over some ideas new fangled
In a corner a golden haired boy his sobs strangled.
Filled with unease, looking at a blob of grease
Assaulted by memories.
“Waiter”, Someone shouted.
He shook away those memories of a home
Where he was Raja, here just a waiter
And yes for the snorer a third –rater.
Ah, he was missing his small, warm cottage,
In the village, yet again.
Resolutely he got up, ignoring the pain
Closing his ears to the chugging of the train
He was a waiter, he could wait, waiting was in his grain.