release

Dulled by food coma,
buzzing from paan juices
percolating spiked tobacco
on my cheek cells,
a faint wind reminds my body
about a layer of caked sweat.

A cloak of numbness
descends on the senses
reducing the world’s volume and reach,
all the while, searing my inertia
in a slow-motion
dance of badass bravado
reviling the grounded routine.

A sense of sin accompanies me.
Am I wrong to seek more
from each moment?
Should the adequacy of food,
shelter and benign love content me?
Is my vagary the same mortal
quest for all men
seeking release, however temporary,
from their slated existence?

Complacency seems the Mecca
of grandparents and mothers.
But men, for the most part,
do their best
to upend their station
with their personal poison.