IN A BANGALORE BUS
At 9.30 a.m. in a Bangalore bus
sullen faces appear trapped in a maze;
Sun’s rays, damp in December,
tingle indolence.
Sights flit past – a crumpled cement
workshop, the aroma from Klasgow
biscuits, minaret- crested mosques
abutting luminous temples; lurching
on a bumpy, dusty track, festival
music eggs the bus on.
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