Riding a Bus, Hands Full

Kolhatkar’s Jejuri occupies one hand
and my wallet, the other.
My back pack is not helping
the cause
as the red ratha lurches
forth
to the next shrine:strand cinema.

Every pot hole is a celestial test
and the conductor your god.
My wish is to reach that obscure
little corner of my wallet
where the change resides
and not fall face first,
on the tin below my feet
to be trampled upon by
the regretting feet who
share my fate.

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