The lawyers come flapping in like crows
to squabble over neon cake.
From their stake on the pavement, rows
of court typists take a break
for nankhatai and a cup of chai.
Blind from the sun, they hardly speak,
just wipe their damp necks and lift
up their faces, their mouths open beaks
to feed on the air from the ceiling fan.
Under the sign that says,
‘Ginger Biscuit Removes Cough’,
you cough. The lawyers rake up
small change with their claws
and make off in a flock of shadows.
At the table furthest from the door,
a man whose shirt has been washed
keeps wiping its face
and wiping its face again.
