by Tabish Khair

An ordinary day's labour is hard and heavy
When you have nothing to look forward to.
The streets lie grey, the rain drops dully
And the wind has a keen, unkind edge.

Work done, you walk the endless streets,
Turning corners with empty hope in coincidence.
Suddenly, footsteps that are similar, a remembered raincoat;
But the face that turns to you is the face of a stranger.

The evening falls darkly; you walk to the apartment,
Open the post-box, feeling its emptiness in your heart.
Someone has left a pamphlet under your door: a protest, a play;
Somewhere in the world things are still happening.