The City and I

This time we didn’t circle each other, the city and I,
hackles raised, fur bristling.
This time there was space between us
and we weren’t competing.
Space enough and more
for the nose-digging librarian and her stainless steel tiffin box,
for the Little Theatre peon
to read me endless Marathi poems on rainy afternoons,
for the woman on the 7.10 Bhayandar slow with green combs in her hair
to say
and say again
He’s coming to get me He’s coming.
This time
the city surged towards me,
mangy, bruised-eyed, non-vaccinated,
suddenly mine.