Denim-jacket wanderers
Bearing dry fruits and lint
Look for a sandwich.
They have vices
I have them too.
The booming bass
Of the dying city
Scores the mood—
A great woof.
Words are said
Between them and me.
They wander
To the bus stop,
Wait unseen.
I watch them though,
While a folded bill
Burns a hole
In my denim pocket.
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