By Saurabh Sinha
Under city lights, people dissolve, distant billboards, neon reverberating
until it blends into
cracks of aged sidewalk.
I came here with a thought, but seconds ago it slipped between sulci, the blaring horn of a
cab picking it up, yellow metal box cross stitching lanes at
40 mph, license plate now a thread slithering off needle,
I wonder what it would be like to be Christian Doppler
in 1842 in Prague,
knowing you would always be drifting away,
sound waves drowning in the wake of siren flashes;
an ambulance’s cries
as someone clings to life through a red light.