This city of mine
Beaming with hope
Has 4 kinds of people
There is one kind
that waits the end of his 6pm shift
Blue collars soiled with sweat and dirt
So much so, they turn grey with rift
He waits at the stop
For an hour, may be more
To catch a 7-pm bus
That’s supposed to take him home
Which is two hours away
He does it six days a week
For 52 weeks a year
And yet his future looks bleak
But he has to pay it back
Had taken a loan, in a bind
So that his son can study
To become the second kind
The second kind
– Hops out of his office
Sometimes at 8 with a yawn
Other times at the break
Of next day’s dawn
Beaten, broken, battered, bent
His will losing shape
Trapped in a cage unseen
This evolved little ape
Hops on to his 2-wheel ride
Paid for by in parts
gaping holes in his salaries
He refuels it, and departs
Empty tank to empty tank
He cant fill it to the brim
Its either that or a hearty meal
His pickings are very slim
His landlords take some,
Some go to the bank
Governments take some,
The rest, schools come and yank
There are holes in his shoes
That have seen a decade’s might
His already grey collars
Tattered turning white
Third kind, stepping down
From their swanky towers of glass
Hopping on to their 4-wheel drive
Its a made up elitist class
4 meetings, 5 calls
Breakfast with Peter
Lunch with Paul
It was a busy day of work
And well, off they roll
To a dinner party, no a cocktail,
it’s called a mixer, I’m told
A gala, meet-n-greet,
no, a charity auction they’re called
Their collars look so white
They think in them, gods reside
Their homes and hearts are godless
The false ceilings are lit bright
The fourth, you’ll find
on the mean streets of my city
The unworshipped gods of freedom
living with gentle ferocity
The faceless, the nameless
The hungry, the naked
Drunk, dejected, infected, sedated
He lies there unconscious
He’s lost in NO thoughts
Straying and swaying
Lampposts to lampposts
No collar on his shirt
No shirt on his back
Nothing to call his own
Nobody will call him back
He lies there, motionless
The brutest version of a god
He sleeps to death each night
Wakes up with not a thought.
The forth one is miserable
He’s In pain, I am told
But perhaps the one with no collar
Knows the truth so cold
These blue collars and grey
These white collars with gold
Eventually, it will all turn to dust
Eventually, it will all fold.
Devangshu Anchalia 