Four thousand acres of roses and carnations
leave the upgraded airport within hours
of being picked. The connectivity
of the most connected city is the television
sitting like an eyesore covered
with a global garment.
Private, non-world, three-speed city, to meet
and be seen, for whose beautification
perfume the colour of urine is sold
at traffic lights, whose vehicles slide
through vast excavations and monsoon-stains
for the under road flyover that will cut
the ring road’s travel time.
On grilled balconies and languid seafronts
we sip Singapore Slings as though
the carnage had nothing to do with us.
The car he drove was so big it couldn’t
come anywhere near where we live.
Everybody knows who killed him.
I know. If someone falls ill at night
there is a birdsong of mobile phones
in which I am always listening for her,
a serious girl who does not know her age.