That’s the way the cookie crumbles
The men at work and women
pour molten bitumen like lava
oozing out in a trickle
from conical beakers
they pour the asphalt
pour the asphalt and lay the road
the ugly road, the narrow road
meandering through the tank bund
engulfing a dry pond
with the tank bed parched and cracked
all through the year
and they go on
all through the damn year
wearing a pair of
makeshift shoes of rags,
yellow and red and black
torn from the bright
clothes the dead men wore
and left aside before
being carried across the
tank bund road along the
lifeless street, the stinking street
with the stench of death
all through the year
running across the stinking street,
hungry and thirsty while
last night’s stale rice
and a dried chilly with salt
carried to work waiting warm
near the tar mixer spewing fire
running across the hot street
the empty street
the street no one walks
with all doors locked from in
they sit for lunch flavoured with bitumen
with rag shoes on legs still in tact
as work is calling
and more asphalt and still more asphalt
and more road, the stinking nasty road
that leads them always
to where the dead men left for
waiting for the shabby
coat of bitumen
smelling of stale rice
the doors are still shut from within
tea time sneaking in and
cookie jars reluctantly open
waiting for milk to boil
raising a cookie to mouth
those wearing bright red
and yellow and black
with legs outstretched on the floor
the marble tiled floor
always cool, always clean
they don’t know and
damn they don’t know
beyond the doors
on the newly asphalted road to nowhere
someone runs up and then down
with rags for shoes
pouring molten tar while the giant roller
levels everything bloody everything
humming in half sleep
that’s the way the cookie crumbles.
(2nd June 2013)
