you young and the morn so wet and cold...

the drizzle started when I don't know...
but you must have woken up
by the soft rustle of the leaves
and the chilly breeze
must have swept into your street...
meandering through the corners
of those apartment blocks...

in black knee length socks...
and red skirt topped
by that white jacket...
you took to the street
braving the cold...
and drizzle sending shivers...
for I know...you have to catch the bus of number six route...
you walk through the mist semi dark...on foot...

the arterial road is vacant...
no sign of silvery buses...
a few cabs wait like yellow stagnant pics...
three dimensional installations stationary tricks...
the tea shop under a tree
is open and the chulla is set...
smoke white like clouds in mini forms
rise up churning dreams of warmth this morning wet...
and you wait...
tugging the end of your jacket
for the bus number six to come...
municipal lights try to catch glory some
yawning up to the wet chilly sky...
a black and white feathered bird
sits still on a handsome pole...forgetting to fly...
drenched as it was like your soul...
waiting it was sure for someone to dole
out a few corns or bits of bread...
rain and mist lingered and made
roads so dustfree...vacant and pensive...
but you take the road to catch the bus...
in white jacket and red skirt
you look the only one young and smart
otherwise this wet chilly morn is so old...
feeble...shaking and shivering in the cold...

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