A Wednesday

      -  Ode to September 7





So, it shook -
Heavens in the morning
Earth at night.

Bloody possessions, torn limbs
Spattered intestines and mangled bones
Of the morn’s proletariats
Metamorphosed brusquely
To flustered, frightened flocks of
Nightwalkers
In this happening city.

Black-robed made way for the dead
The dead for the grieving
The grieving for 
The nightgown-and-shorts-clad.
Victims one minute,
Revellers another.

‘Mild’ and ‘slight’
Were the adjectives used 
By those
With their mugshot—likenesses
Plastered over the screens.
Nothing to worry about, you see
11 dead, 74 injured
It was the exceptional one per cent.
Then again,
4.2 on the Richter is nothing.
Go home.
Sleep well.

Mere twelve hours 
And the city shook
Twice.
Mere twelve hours.

Both times
Death whisked past us
It chose, instead –
Others, with more to lose perhaps

Both times we turned
To Twitter and Facebook 
To maintain our sanity.