7:42 pm

our brains are sick. 


bombay ghar.

(i saw this family on a street in bombay and it was the most beautiful home i saw this evening.)

the father sat on the moist rock

(a few feet away from where all the trucks smashed the concrete)
and his cigarette’s smoke disappeared somewhere

in the rain and lost its burn.

he didn’t throw it away.
he wished someone gave him a lighter that evening.
the mother decided that her roti
was a little less black than the previous day
sitting inches away from the wood stove
the mud cushioned her.
the big girl collected
the rain water
in her frock stitched with discarded leather

so that it created an ocean in her lap.
her baby brother could now

make his paper boats float in her lap.
dirty sand couldn’t get in those boats now.
the baby sleeping on the temporary stone bed
played with a string hanging from the

brick umbrella build above him and
if you looked closely,
he knew that he shouldn’t pull the string.

it was a carnival.