Poem: Backbone of Technoculture

With ruts and ditches on both sides lies a strip of tarmac, hurling motorists in a game of urban Hacky Sack.

From Peshawar to Calcutta you’ll find the meat grinder, vilifying Rudyard Kipling for calling it a river.

Between the rickshas, bicycles and crawling bull-drawn carts, rampage fast cars, trucks and busses sometimes hitting like darts.

The road kills grow larger daily the elephants lament, but mostly it’s pedestrians who eat the most cement.

Next shroud the mess with hot weather and choking car exhaust, you’ll inhale the joys of travel on Kipling’s “backbone” lost.

In shock and numbness one must ask “How did India get, vehicular Russian Roulette that’s not so Indian yet?”