Kid in a car

'Write a poem on poverty'

But who am I to tell the tales of the dark lives of the labourers
All I do is sit in the car,
Still as a predator, meditating for its prey
I can hear the mosquito's orchestra out in the street.
Momentary high beams of cars passing by,
And these people are caught like dear in headlights.
But I am a prey, hiding from my predator; the eyes of these labourers that haunt me
Their dark eyes, hair untamed and shingled off,
tendons showing at every joint
Fathers comfort in the alcohol and gutka
The mothers sit by a tea stall, fanning their babies on hot summer evenings, as the day's shift ends and the men come back, to their dens of darkness,
made of bricks and cement, yet so temporary.

Who am I to tell these figments of their lives?

I'm just a kid sitting in a car.