Chinese made British beauty throttled to silence,

The mechanic rises to feel the beautiful rays of sun wishing him;


After a brief hiatus of regular dilly-dallying amidst the household cacophony,

The regular mandatory chores of the morning start – its eight now.


Newspaper lay idly at the doorstep waiting to announce the world,

The mechanic picks it up hesitantly puffing stale air of high risers ;


Green tea and diet breakfast enforces the first rule,

Has to be a strict gap of an hour at least before treading the moving belt;


Numbness prevails for the next hour when flies relish on his idle wrist,

The mechanic fires up the engine to commute to the holy shrine of health;


One needs to sweat to earn its livelihood, next hours contradict the theory,

Moving belts and heavy weights come at a cost, price to perspire;


French aftershave and American perfumes try hard to prevent,

Prevent the stink of the hollow soul as he strides towards the shrine of earning;


Korean beauty throws tantrums whilst it swerves its way through the logjam,

Hoi polloi race to take the pole position, enjoying the journey is a lie;


Japanese air conditioners work overtime to spawn cool yet stale air,

The mechanic blends with the logical world of fixing things,gapes and shrugs;


Noon gives away space to evening, lost birds seek direction,

Indigestible lunches give way to the acidic breaths, the air looms heavy – Its eight now;


Black smoke lurches out from the white sticks,

The mechanic seeks passion and inspiration from the fire, as it crawls closer;


Tired strides accompany heavy heads, as the dead strolls with the hallowed,

The dark beautiful night gets blinded at the stare of stark headlights;


Dark Korean beauty loves her way back, blending well with the pitch black,

The fool manoeuvres to make way while the driven enjoys the journey – Its eleven now ;


White shirted curious eyes looks for velvet necklines,

The mechanic breaths out slow, as he quenches his thirst gulping down the yellow;


Inhibitions rests, tight neck-tie loosens, voices reach crescendo,

Hard day is just a norm, breathing is life now;


Chips and chirps mellow down, as the bards and the birds seek direction,

The mechanic pushes hard the plush leather chair, done for the day;


Pain and pleasure don’t intertwine, foreplay does not play any part any more,

The road is travelled half, but then, journey is a lie, its the destination which matters.


Dreams dare to appear, as the crankshaft prepares for the next hard day .


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