An Avenue Where Very Few Roam Poem by Mira Midha

Streets alive with a tawdry glitz
Of lurid shine,
And boisterous jarring of melody
That mingles with a rhyme
Of discordant hawking vendors
In a clamorous call,
Soliciting the tacky glamour
Of trinket stalls.

Over and above precariously leaning,
On rattled railings, preening,
Damsels in sleazy wraps,
Eyes catching a cleavage
And a ‘come hither' smile,
That stays pasted then unglues for a while.
Curvaceous bodies beckoning in feign,
Because behind all the slush and shimmer,
Lies a raw pain,
That questions her again and again…..
Who am I?
I have given my soul,
Like a night without a moon,
I thirst alone
For maybe just gentle words of care,
Am I really there…
Loitering in an avenue where
Very few roam,
Each life is not really counted,
Lost, faceless in shadows
Behind lurking doors and darkened lanes,
I wane….
Into an eclipse then disappear,
Only to appear
As an exploited trifle, pounded and pried,
Does anyone really care if I cried?
Cried for my soul,
For the woman in me,
For the child growing up
Who never wanted to be
Just another forsaken commodity!
Who am I?