This is a city dwellers's response to Robert Frost's 'Roadside Stand'.
When the night is no longer young,
And I walk into the night,
My ears sharpen:
A distant, eerie wail of a dog,
The bang of his staff
By the chowkidar,
The last shift returning in shared taxi
From the beehive,
I fill my lungs
With tattered smoke
Still there is a drowsy hope
In the hazy air,
Thank God it was Friday.
I return home.
*chowkidar: watchman
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