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A Sip of Experience

A poem on my daily routine in the coffee hut:

Couldn't distinguish cappuccino, latte or espresso
As they called it; and that's strong, light and black.
All I knew is, mom's stuff is unnameable,
Cause that's titrated with love.

Coffee hut, dopes my stomach's void
For a grant of the 'deer' note.
Being a loner, I did befriend them all,
A couple of dogs, a triple of flies.

Daily, I see her coming, with human-sized wallets
Never seen her paid; her wallets do;
When the taste-buds touch the brownish fluid,
My pupil gazes over to the match-stick crowd.

NCC parade, with Hindi orders, which none gets, even the instructor
Meanwhile, my mind recalls Dead Poet Society's dangers of conformity.
BBC Broadcast; I mistook the convo of Yoyo boys
The NRIs, the complexity of their utterance made me want a Thesaurus.

So far, so long, my friend puppy is waiting for me
For a little sip of the maroon drop;
Thus I leave him a quarter cup
By breaking the ethics of using dustbins.

Tagged in : Alumni, Aahir Giri, My space, Mark Benjamin, Puneethkumar Ravichandran,